


Bearded

by AlexFlex



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Complete, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fake News - Freeform, Hobbit characters in minor roles not really worth naming but its Nori Dwalin and Thranduil, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lock Down Fest, M/M, Non-con kiss, Part of the LLF project, Rumours, Superstition, rated Explicit to err on the side of caution but it is not a smutfest nttatwwt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:09:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 48,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexFlex/pseuds/AlexFlex
Summary: After the War of the Ring Gimli returns to Erebor with an Elf in tow. What Elven plot is this?
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 167
Kudos: 262





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [draccarys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/draccarys/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A gift for draccarys whose comments were so encouraging in my other story.
> 
> Please note that many of the passages I use are directly from Tolkien but used in a different context from in the canon texts.
> 
> ******I found the lovely and thoughtful comments I accidentally deleted when I changed chapters around (email). I will paste them back into the appropriate chapters so as not to leave spoilers. Sorry again for the kerfuffle.

" />

Tiny sparks flew about and pierced the gloom. Gudrun paused in her rhythm and smoothed her beard, making sure it was fully tucked into her leather apron and ensuring that her dark brown hair was packed under her leather hat. The workshop reverberated with hammers striking iron, such that she did not at first notice the commotion outside. Then one by one, the hammers of her companions fell silent as all thought of work was cast aside. She too ventured out to join the throng of people on the pathway outside. The snippets of conversation soon knitted together; a raven had arrived for the King under the Mountain. Word was that Gimli, son of Gloin was to return soon and there would be a feast day.

_Well, that’s useless. When is ‘soon’? Today? This week? This month? Obviously, those who needed to know, knew but by the time rumours filtered down to the likes of her they were all but useless noise._

“Gudrun, you two were friends, find out what’s happening.”

“Yes, that’s right ‘Oh Gloin, you might not remember me, I sucked off your son a few times about twenty years ago, what’s the word at the forge?’ I should say that, should I?”

Trug never hesitated to tell Gudrun when she was wrong, so their silence spoke to the truth of the objection.

Close to a year and a half ago Gimli and Gloin had been sent out to seek counsel from the Elves. The matter was fiercely debated at length, but all who had seen the Black Rider at the gates of Erebor and heard his demands had been extremely shaken and eventually conceded it was now the time for such desperate measures.

Of course, it was out of the question to consult with the Elves of Mirkwood. That forest lay so much under Shadow it was rumoured that the Elves there were now under dark control themselves. Not that it would make much difference. They had always been dark creatures. Dwarrow were not fooled by the singing and laughter like bells. Her uncle had been friends with one of those imprisoned by the Elvenking and there was not a single Dwarf under the mountain who did not know of the treachery of the Elves. True, the Elves had fought alongside them, but it was to save their own smooth skins, not for honour, for if Erebor had fallen, the Enemy would have been at both flanks, with Dol Guldur to the South a source of pestilence.

Gloin had returned alone and the meddler Tharkûn had apparently led Gimli on some sort of journey together with Men, Children of Men and Elves. Gimli was the only Dwarf. She hadn’t really understood what was happening but when war reached Erebor she had done her duty. Then news came that the whole war was ended, and Gimli yet lived. News came that the reclamation of Khazad-dûm had failed, and that settlement had been lost to the last Dwarf. Thorin Stonehelm had been crowned King Under the Mountain in a sombre ceremony which had served as much as a mass memorial as a coronation. They were saying it was now ‘a New Age’ and that there was a new king of Men. Emissaries had been sent to the coronation and returned. Apparently Mirkwood was now ‘Eryn Lasgalen’ and no longer filled with evil. _It would take more than just a change of name to purge the evil of those woods_.

Life settled back into its usual routines. There was talk that in Gondor Dwarrow were to be called to repair the damage the city had sustained during the war. Gudrun was not the travelling sort and being in a Mannish city did not appeal. She had heard foul tales of how Men dealt with women. All dwarves knew that those with the gift of Mahal, those who could bear young, were always to be referred to as ‘he’ when dealing with Men. She did not feel kindly inclined towards keeping up that pretence for months or even years while working in close contact with them. In fact, Gudrun had been thinking about children. She was not craft-wed and had not found her One, but the thought of bearing children was becoming more and more appealing. Since they were so few, as a Dwarrowdam she could have her pick of partner, really, with whom to bear young. The ideal would be a love-match, but all understood that it could also be a practical arrangement.

She had thought about approaching Gimli when the news came that he had survived. Not that she had been keeping her forge lit for him for all these years but because it was a sensible arrangement for them both. He did not have a One and even if he had met a Dwarf on the journey, it would be years before the courtship ended. Often, they did not mind sharing. They had got along well enough. _Don’t lie, Gudrun, you were very compatible, and he was a generous and attentive lover. His clever tongue._ Gimli was the life of the ale hall and he had enjoyed her company too. He was well past the age Dwarrow normally found their One, perhaps he was craft-wed as a warrior, in any case he was not the type to be overly sentimental about the matter. He would be thinking about children also. He was a ‘Hero of Erebor’ now too, like his father, so he did not need to worry about making political connections or raising his status but if he wished to wed another he could do so. She just wanted a few children with him. That was not too much to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was rereading the book and saw this passage:(Return of the King; Chapter 5 - Steward and King)  
>  _So now there was a wide space before the walls of Minas Tirith, and it was hemmed in upon all sides by the knights and the soldiers of Gondor and of Rohan, and by the people of the City and of all parts of the land. A hush fell upon all as out from the host stepped the Dúnedain in silver and grey; and before them came walking slow the Lord Aragorn. He was clad in black mail girt with silver, and he wore a long mantle of pure white clasped at the throat with a great jewel of green that shone from afar; but his head was bare save for a star upon his forehead bound by a slender fillet of silver. With him were Éomer of Rohan, and the Prince Imrahil, and Gandalf robed all in white, and four small figures that many men marvelled to see._
> 
> _‘Nay, cousin! they are not boys,’ said Ioreth to her kinswoman from Imloth Melui, who stood beside her. ‘Those are Periain, out of the far country of the Halflings, where they are princes of great fame, it is said. I should know, for I had one to tend in the Houses. They are small, but they are valiant. Why, cousin, one of them went with only his esquire into the Black Country and fought with the Dark Lord all by himself, and set fire to his Tower, if you can believe it. At least that is the tale in the City. That will be the one that walks with our Elfstone. They are dear friends, I hear. Now he is a marvel, the Lord Elfstone: not too soft in his speech, mind you, but he has a golden heart, as the saying is; and he has the healing hands. “The hands of the king are the hands of a healer”, I said; and that was how it was all discovered. And Mithrandir, he said to me: “Ioreth, men will long remember your words”, and-‘_
> 
> That just got me thinking about how the 'broken telephone' of gossip and rumour would translate the events of the book in the eyes of ordinary people. And here we are now.
> 
> This story is part of the LLF Comment Project, which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   
> Feedback
> 
> Short comments
> 
> Long comments
> 
> Questions
> 
> Constructive criticism
> 
> “<3” as extra kudos
> 
> Reader-reader interaction
> 
> Author Responses: This author replies to comments


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the Lock Down Fest challenge in the time of COVID-19 
> 
> (https://lockdownfest.tumblr.com/)

A week later Gudrun stood outside the workshop. The road passing from the main gates to the throne room was an ideal spot, but the crowds pressed close. Her dark brown coils had been oiled with fragrant balm, with the one white streak highlighting the pattern and her beard was also braided in an intricate pattern which showcased the skill of her hands. She tugged at the bodice she wore, uncomfortable in borrowed clothing. _It’s not as if he is even going to see me in this crowd. Foolish_.

At the head of the procession was the king. Either side of him were carried the ceremonial chests of gold, open and with coins spilling over to display the wealth of Erebor. It was not just children who were scrambling on the ground to pick up the odd coin that tumbled free. Behind the king walked his queen, and council and bringing up the rear were the remaining ‘Heroes of Erebor’. Bombur was carried on a litter and flanked by Bifur and Bofur; Nori, Dori and Dwalin walked together with heavy steps; Space was left for those who should also have processed in honour. Balin, Oin and Ori, lost in Khazad-dûm. King Thorin and princes Fili and Kili lost so long ago. The Hobbit was probably dead by now. Gloin walked in front, just behind the king and next to his son. Something about his rigid posture suggested he was sullen with displeasure. And next to Gimli walked an Elf.

An Elf.

As the procession approached, there were the usual happy shouts and cheers; ‘Khazâd!’ came the cries. But as the procession passed, it left an unnatural wave of silence. Next to Gudrun someone spat on the ground. Gudrun hardly had time to look at Gimli. Her eyes swept over him; he was looking thin in the face. His eyes were locked forward as were Gloin’s. Next to Gimli walked an Elf. A real Elf. Gudrun’s heart was pounding. She had seen Elves in the recent battle. Dark haired Elves, mostly. This one had golden hair, like that of the Elvenking. _What the fuck was an Elf doing here?_ Two ceremonial guards flanked them. Not a usual part of such a procession. They would normally stay in the back. “Why is there an Elf here?” It was no longer just her thoughts asking that question. It was a murmur rippling through the crowd.

Instead of pressing forward with the crowd after the procession passed them, she took Trug’s hand. “Let’s go.” They ran through the back door of the workshop and through the connecting pathways that led to the great audience chamber, laughing as they went. They found a space on one of the upper balconies. They were so far away that looking down the king and those around him looked like little badgers, milling about. She could not hear what was said, but it sounded like the usual official droning. The Elf stood forward and bowed to the King Under the Mountain. Now there was something you didn’t see every day.

Back in Trug’s rooms that evening Gudrun used a piece of charcoal to line her dark eyes. She had bathed and annointed herself with scented oils and perfumes and the fragrance hung in a cloud around her. She wore the bodice again, together with a dark blue skirt. She knew Gimli would be wearing his Durin Blue. Underneath the long skirts she wore her comfortable work boots.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get you an invitation too.”

“That’s fine. You rub shoulders with the nobs.”

Gudrun was thinking of rubbing more than shoulders tonight.

The Kingdom had given out many whole oxen for roasting in street parties. Naturally, the entire kingdom could not feast together in the main feasting halls, but the message was that rejoicing was to be had by all, and who were they to say no to free casks of ale and meat. Those who had been closer to the speeches had said Sauron, who was apparently the cause of all the trouble, was now dead. And somehow a Hobbit had killed him or something. The tale she later heard was that one of the Hobbits went with only his esquire into the Cursed Lands and fought with the Dark Lord all by himself, and set fire to his Tower. Hobbits were valiant creatures, truly.

Gudrun’s uncle had fought in the Battle of Five Armies, and ever since, he could no longer stand to be in large crowds. As was his custom on feast days, he was staying at home quietly with his wife. Having come from the Iron Hills with King Dáin as a general, Uncle always received such invitations out of courtesy. He never accepted so it was customary to only send him an invitation for one, as it was known he would not attend. Gudrun clutched the parchment in her hands. It was crumpled by the time she showed it to the guards, but she was waved in without a second look. A steward raised an eyebrow at the name on her invitation but simply directed her to a table in a corner. She was late, and the official toasts and speeches were over. Gudrun did not know anyone here so focused on enjoying the food and drink, and by the time the tables had been cleared away for dancing she was one of the first to lead those she was sitting with in an energetic mining dance.

Throughout the evening she had been casting surreptitious glances towards the high table. All were animated but Gimli seemed to sparkle. He would turn to speak to the Elf, but he seemed to be the only one talking to him. She and Gimli had not been as completely estranged as she had suggested to Trug. They sometimes crossed paths, and had a friendly word for each other, but realistically Gudrun knew she was no more than an acquaintance. She tried to catch his eye, but she was too far away.

As the dancing began, the Elf stayed seated, next to Bombur and Gimli took his place on the dancefloor. It was common knowledge that a spell had been cast on Bombur when passing through Mirkwood which had caused him to lose his memory. He had also been in the Elvenking’s dungeons. No wonder he was turned away from the Elf and speaking only to his neighbour on the other side.

Gimli danced with the fervour of one hoping to forget. His tankard was in his hand but nary a drop was spilled. The Elf did not get up to dance even once. If they weren’t such cold creatures, she would almost say he looked frightened. As it was a feast partly in his honour Gimli did not leave early, but at the point where the lamps burned low and the room began to thin out Gimli put his hand on the Elf’s back and gently led him towards the back exit. _He actually touched the Elf!_

Gudrun surged forward and pushed through the crowd. Her sturdy boots aided her passage, stepping on soft formal slippers and she caught up to Gimli as he rounded the corner past the exit.

The light of recognition filled his eyes. “Gudrun!”

It would be best to just ignore the Elf who looked-, well how could one tell how an Elf looked on those expressionless faces?

She decided not to beat around the anvil. The discussion she needed to have was for a private setting. “Gimli, I have braided below for you,” she murmured close to his ear.

For a split second he looked taken aback, then he reached for her hand. “We have had good times, lass, but no longer.” And with that he walked away, leaving her standing in the murk of the unlit passage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Enchanted River rose in the Mountains of Mirkwood, and flowed northwards in a great loop to meet the Forest River under the canopy of the trees of Mirkwood. Its water was black, and carried a curse that gave the river its name - any person coming into contact with its enchanted water immediately fell into a long, deep sleep. (Tolkiengateway.net)_
> 
> In 'The Hobbit' Bombur fell into this then slept for six days. When he awoke he could not remember any of the journey before. 
> 
> _one of the Hobbits went with only his esquire into the Cursed Lands and fought with the Dark Lord all by himself, and set fire to his Tower_
> 
> This rumour is lifted directly from Return of The King. Sorry I didn't not note down the chapter and verse. EDIT: Return of the King. Ch 5.
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

His father had claimed one of the most sought-after dwellings after the reclamation of Erebor and it was not far from the main feasting hall. He had already been home, earlier in the day but Gimli drew in a sharp breath as he approached the door he had been hoping to return to throughout his journeying.

The image of his front door had become in his mind the anchor for feelings more complex than simple homesickness. At first, during the journey to destroy the ring, he had longed for home, but by the time he knew his heart, he feared being cast out, then at last knew there was no longer a place for him here, regardless of his welcome. For a moment Gimli just stood with his hand brushing the familiar stone, then let them into the silent rooms.

The diplomatic wrangling conducted by raven from Eryn Lasgalen and Dale had at least ensured that Legolas would be received. The recent cooperation in battle had made all sides more amenable to acceding to his request, but this new excavation was fragile, and the walls could cave in at any moment. They were wed by Elvish custom. His parents knew, his king knew, Eryn Lasgalen knew, but Erebor at large was not ready for such news. ‘A fragile peace’ Stonehelm had called it, which was not to be disrupted by stories of one of their heroes being ensorcelled by the son of the hated Elvenking. ‘Wait a few years’ had been the directive.

Gimli had started to light lamps when he turned and saw Legolas still standing by the open door. Shit. How could he have forgotten? The stone pressed down on the Elf. After the strain of today the last thing Legolas needed was to end up stonesick. Gimli quickly put out the lamps and took Legolas’ hand. They would be seen, but there were already rumours aplenty. As he walked up a series of narrow steps, he stopped then turned around.

“Sorry, love. That’s the Raven Tower. I would not give more cause for mistrust. If you were seen there the rumour would be that the Elf, as a spy, was sending secret messages at night by raven. I’m taking you to the main balcony, above the gates.”

It was midnight and clouds had covered the stars, but Legolas sat with his eyes closed, gasping and taking pleasure in the feel of the fresh air again. Gimli had tucked them into a far corner of the walkway. They were not exactly hidden, but by the time anyone rounded the corner to where they sat Legolas at least would have heard them approach. They finally settled and with the dark sky above them, he felt the tension leaving his body. They had anticipated this reception. This hostility. Gloin was pretending the Elf could not be seen or heard.

Legolas remembered the last Dwarf who had spoken to Gimli, and who had also ignored him, and this jolted him out of his musings.

“Melleth nin, what were they all saying to you? ‘I’ve braided below’, surely that can’t be-.”

Throughout the day Gimli had been slapped on the back so many times that without his leathers he would have been bruised. Among the friends had been gawkers and from both categories had come offers. If he had been the same Dwarf who had left Erebor for Rivendell he would have been delighted.

“Yes, love. They were all offering me bed-sport.” As they had journeyed together Gimli had spoken candidly of how among the Dwarves, physical affection is not restricted, and is considered sport, even including the acts Elves would construe as marriage.

Legolas blanched. He knew, he knew there had been others - "So the last one, you had been with her before?”

“Yes, but you have my troth that now I shall cleave to no other.”

Legolas did not doubt Gimli. He just wondered how much he could tolerate before he would draw his knives. Perhaps it was fortunate that as a condition of his admission to the mountain he was to go about unarmed. Gimli never encouraged the advances, but it seemed that his heroic return had fanned the flames both for those he knew of yore and strangers attracted by his new status.

Among the Elves in Mirk-, Eryn Lasgalen, to proposition another’s spouse was the same as issuing a death threat. A broken heart could lead to fading, the death of an immortal so that was not a matter to be treated lightly. The differences between their people were many indeed, but together certainly they would learn to navigate them. A warm mouth found his and for several long minutes they pressed close and soon a hunger began to rise.

Gimli had crept into his heart as inexorably as the tide. His dislike had changed to curiosity, then to bemusement. In battle his grace, his strength, his bravery had earned Legolas’ silent respect and washed away the beliefs that a Dwarf could not act with honour or with courage. That they were bumbling and clumsy. Beneath the mellyrn of Lorien that great leveller, grief, had brought them together. In silence, friendship had begun to wash over them and only at the sight of a near fatal injury in Helm’s Deep had he known it for love. Here now, in the Lonely Mountain they were trying to chart their course through these new waters.

“You know they are saying I am bespelled, to keep me by your side thus. If I were to react with anger, with challenges for duels to what all see as everyday requests that would just confirm to all that I am not in my right mind.”

Legolas sighed. He knew no malice was intended but it was just so bizarre to him.

Gimli’s lips found his again. They felt like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will update on Mondays and Fridays.


	4. Chapter 4

She liked to come up here to think, and she stood leaning against the parapet when the movement caught her eye. From the Raven Tower she could see them. Even without her darksight the Elf would have glowed in the starlight. He looked so strange, so thin and stretched out. To be able to see his chin was repulsive. She had never liked that about living among Men during the days of exile.

  
The rejection by Gimli had stung but was not unexpected. She would need to bide her time. He would be receiving many offers. When the first rush of people propositioning him wound down and when the Elf left and the ceremonial and diplomatic events were concluded, she would have more opportunity to approach him again. Dwarrowlings were a treasure and the more she had been thinking about it, the more her heart desired it.

  
If Gimli did not wish to set up a household with her to raise the young ones that would be unusual, but she could live with that. She already had her own place but perhaps her parents would want her to move in with them again or even Gimli’s parents. No. She would not be the only one thinking this way. They would save their home for a dam of higher status. Though Nori and Dwalin were together Nori, a ‘Hero of Erebor’ had sired at least ten Dwarrowlings by seven different dams. His children all wore their hair in that ridiculous hairstyle. Gudrun had never been looking for romance and would not miss it. Children were so few that they would be loved by all.

  
She could not help looking down at them. She had, of course seen Elves before, but they were so strange. Then the Elf moved, he was pressing his face to Gimli’s. _What was he doing? Casting a spell?_ Then the movement became unmistakable. Kissing. Her stomach roiled. Surely not. She watched as Gimli’s face went to the Elf’s lap. His crotch. From this distance she could not hear anything, but no one could mistake the motions for anything else. She could not draw her eyes away then she saw the Elf grit his teeth and throw his head back in unmistakable climax.

  
Gudrun felt her knees give way and she slid to the floor. The ravens were all roosting and did not make a sound, but the blood was pounding in her ears like a war drum. She had not really believed all the stories about a spell, but what else could it be? How could Gimli feel anything but disgust at that smooth face and pointed – pointed! ears. After a few moments she got up and ran quickly down the stairs and through the deserted streets and was back in her rooms before she knew it.

  
She removed the bodice; Trug would not be pleased if it were damaged, then fell onto her bed after removing her boots. She lay down and tried to think.

  
Sleep had evidently found her because the sounds of the carts below told her the early morning deliveries had started. She washed her face and undid the intricate braiding and put in simple work braids. She changed into her usual brown smock and grey skirt then when she had fastened her boots and belt she went to her desk and wrote two notes.

Trug was bleary-eyed as they opened the door and automatically reached out for the bodice Gudrun held out in her hand.

“Bloody time’s this?” they muttered groggily.

“Please give the workshop this note, let them know I can’t come in.”

Trug took it with a grunt and slammed the door in her face.

She doubted many would put in an appearance today. Street parties had gone on well into the night and she would not be surprised if it would be as it had been the day after Durin’s day, when the Master could not be roused to unlock the workshop and let them in.

At this early hour the streets were still deserted as she made her way to the grander district. She found the door she was looking for, slipped the note underneath then turned back, her boots booming and echoing in the quiet morning.

Legolas watched the dawn and looked to the direction of Eryn Lasgalen. If he lifted his head, he could see a glimpse of the distant forest. As the sun rose there was a gleam of yellow upon the forest’s far roof as the light caught the first pale leaves. His family, his friends would be singing with the dawn chorus now. As he sang softly he looked at Gimli lying next to him with his head in Legolas’ lap. He had thought to bring a light coverlet before leaving the house and no chill had reached him this night under the stars, above the gates of Erebor.

When the sun had climbed higher in the sky, he roused Gimli who grumbled then led them back to his home. It was clear Gloin and Mili had returned and Gimli tried to be as quiet as possible.

“What’s this?” Legolas noticed a piece of parchment on the ground by the door. Legolas could make out the runes for Gimli’s name on the outside. Gimli looked at it. After a few long moments he spoke.

“It’s trouble.”

Gimli held out his hand and Legolas held it, then Gimli read aloud. “ _Gimli, I was on the Raven tower last night and I saw. Meet me alone this morning. Gudrun_.” There was an address at the bottom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far into the story please consider leaving a comment. Positive or negative, I just want to know how people feel about it.


	5. Chapter 5

As they had first approached Erebor together Gimli had pointed out the Raven tower and told the story of the generations of ravens which lived there. There had long been great friendship between them and the people of Erebor; and they often brought secret news and were rewarded with such bright things as they coveted to hide in their dwellings. “They live many a year, and their memories are long, and they hand on their wisdom to their children. I knew many among the ravens when I was a lad.”

Legolas recalled that the tower clearly overlooked the walkway where they had spent the night. They had agreed to keep certain aspects of their relationship secret from the general public. They were to be known as ‘friends’ only first, to let people get used to the idea that such a friendship was possible. This was strange to him as Elves cannot be ‘secretly married’. That their fea is now joined with another is clear to all.

But he understood. It had taken him months of living together with a Dwarf at close quarters; having his life saved by a Dwarf and going through lifechanging experiences to allow him his paradigm shift. An official statement by a faceless government officer would not have the same impact on the general populace in Erebor.

He had not even thought of stopping Gimli last night or given a care to who might see. His mouth, so hot and seeking had felt so right. Legolas had done the same and Gimli fell into the sleep of the sated while Legolas sat in reverie. He had been thinking of the stars and how making love under them was how it should always be. He had hoped they would shine their blessing down on them. He had not spared a thought to who else might be nearby.

“The same Gudrun from last night?”

“It’s not a common name, so it would be a strange coincidence if it were not.”

“I think you should go and meet with her.”

________________

Gimli tugged at his beard as he walked down the narrow streets to the district where Gudrun lived. He had remembered her fondly when he saw her last night. She was so jolly and quick to laugh and spending time with her had been always been fun.

Dwalin had guided him through his weapons Mastery and Dwalin’s philosophy was that any Weapons Master should have a secondary craft, to stop his heart from hardening and from becoming focused solely on the art of war. The workshop where Gudrun worked produced both fine jewellery and sturdier items and Gimli had spent several months there over the years. In fact, when he thought about how to cast the Lady’s gift into crystal, he had been considering consulting Gudrun about the chain.

Now there was mischief afoot. She was no blackmailer. That much he knew. After their brief liaison had ended, he still saw her sporadically as was the way of these things. He had gone to her a few times to buy a gift for his Amad. They had laughed together when they found each other in the same alehouse but by unspoken agreement they had drawn a line under their trysts and carried on with their lives. They had shared a hot kafe one afternoon when they bumped into each other in Dale about a year before he had left for Rivendell and parted with no ill will between them.

He reached the address on the note. They had never actually been to the other’s home before. Their liaisons had been in the empty rooms after a feast and once in the empty workshop after she had requested a key ‘to work late’. He had trusted her enough to allow her to seat him on a chair and wrap thick chains about his arms so that he sat immobile as she worked her mouth on him.

 _This situation needed to be handled carefully and managed properly,_ he thought as he knocked on her door. She opened it and wordlessly let him in. Her rooms were small, and the door opened straight into the kitchen. She gestured to a seat, then was sitting with a cup of tea before her which looked cold and was still full. She gestured for him to take a seat.

“Can I make you some tea?”

“What’s this about, Gudrun?”

She sighed. She went to stand beside him and took one of his hands in hers. “I want to help you, Gimli. I can see you have been bewitched.”

He sighed and tugged on his beard.

Gudrun thought, perhaps she should not have been so direct. It was probably part of the enchantment that if you said you knew what was happening it would probably alert the Elf somehow. But he had come alone, maybe he was strong enough to break through. Maybe he was not fully in its power. She had not properly thought about what she would have done if the Elf had turned up at her doorstep.

“Gudrun, I’m not under an enchantment. I love him. He is good, and kind and brave. Much of what we have been told about Elves is untrue. Much of it is twisted. We have done them much wrong too.”

_Definitely under an enchantment. Usually a kiss helps these sorts of things. Normally she would not kiss someone without invitation, but he was in extremis. She was helping him and afterwards he would thank her._

She stood and leaned over where he now sat and pressed her mouth to his. Lighting fast he grabbed her wrists and pushed her back.

“By Yavanna’s teats, what are you doing, lass! I told you yesterday I don’t want that!”

“I’m helping you!”

“-You- What?”

Poor thing, he looked bewildered. It must be the enchantment.

“I’m trying to help break the enchantment before the Elf finds you.”

Gimli put his face in his hands. “Valar.”

Even the evidence of her own eyes had not been enough to convince her of Legolas’ affection for him. After lovemaking Gimli enjoyed being petted and made much of. Even as he drifted away to sleep, he had felt Legolas’ kisses in his hair, felt his hands stroking his back, his flanks and finally holding his hand until he fell asleep on the rampart. What kind of enchantment forces the enchanter to do so much work? Surely she had seen that as she had looked upon them.

“Gudrun, for your own safety speak of this to no one.” _Safety from Legolas but not in the way you think_. There was nothing more to be done today. Gimli stood and took his leave.


	6. Chapter 6

Gimli walked slowly through the streets from Gudrun’s house and by the time he returned home, Gloin had already left the house. As it was still early, he climbed back into bed where Legolas was waiting.

They lay with their heads close together on the pillow.

“Gudrun saw us last night, as you know from the note. She thinks you have cast a spell on me, and she kissed me to try and break it.”

Anger flared up in Legolas’ breast and he sat up with a jolt.

Gimli steadied me and held me as I sank into the bed.

“Gently,” He said softly, his beard brushing against my face as he spoke. “Breathe slowly. It will help.”

I growled and began to speak. “That -,”

“Peace.” Gimli cut me off. “I stopped it and it went no further. I asked her to keep silent, but I know not if she will.”

  
Legolas tried to push down his anger. He knew a kiss did not mean the same thing to her. He knew she was not challenging his marriage. She did not even know of it. But it hurt, that Gimli was not also furious. Gimli just seemed resigned.

Legolas feared his anger would flare up again.

“Just follow my breathing, love. Breathe slowly.”

Gimli held me close, slowing his own breathing gently and finally feeling me following along, my shudders dampening until I finally relaxed in his arms, my limbs still tangled with his.

“I’m yours, he murmured into my cheek,” his beard still tickling mine.

I moved and took his face between my hands. I gently pressed my forehead to his. I stroked his beard.

With a sigh he spoke. “I swear to you by all the Valar, by anything I hold dear on Middle earth, I will never leave you. And I have forsaken all others.”

He raised his rough hand to my face again and his fingers traced my eyebrows, my lips, my jaw. His hand slipped over my ears.

I shivered at the touch.

I pressed my hand on his chest, stroking the hair that covered it.

He growled, low in his throat.

I knew he did not want me to worry.

I made a small sound of pleasure. We did not have any official engagements today so we could stay here as long as we wanted.

  
_______________

  
By the time Gimli groggily rolled out of bed he knew it was early in the afternoon. He walked into the kitchen and saw that Legolas was seated at the table with a bowl of fruit cut up and drizzled with honey and lemon water to stop them browning. Surprised Gimli caught his mother’s eye. Fresh fruit was expensive and difficult to come by. They normally ate it dried when they ate it at all. She had made a special effort to find this for Legolas. She squeezed his hand then continued polishing the glass she was working on.

Legolas did not speak when in the common areas of the house. He did not wish to enflame the situation. He knew how quickly it could descend into violence and did not want bloodshed, either in Gimli’s home or anywhere under the mountain.

Gloin was now old, and his reflexes were not as quick as Gimli’s. Unless Gloin acted dishonourably, he would not be able to kill him, and Gloin was not one for poison or hiring others to do foul deeds, that much he knew. Still, if Gloin took a weapon to him Legolas could not guarantee he could disarm him without injury. If Gloin were killed at his hand or even just injured how could they continue? Thus, when Gloin ignored him he did not try to engage. Gimli’s mother seemed to be thinking along the same lines and hoping to avoid a flare up of tempers. She was not a meek woman, to be cowed into following her husband, but at the same time, she knew Gloin’s mind could not be changed by force and he was not willing to reason, so when Mili did Legolas small acts of kindness, with a nod of his head he acknowledged the kindness of her gestures, but did not actively engage with either of Gimli’s parents, in order not to break Gloin’s unspoken rule.

Exacerbating the tension by prolonging contact seemed unwise. It was not only in Gimli’s home that I was not welcome. In public, tension also seemed high and with my sensitive hearing I noted many Westron slurs and oaths directed at me and some in Khudzul which I could not understand but whose tone was clear. Thus, I spent much of the time in Gimli’s bedroom.

From the kitchen door Gimli gestured with his hands. _Come here_.

I brought the bowl of fruit with me and Gimli led me back to his large bed. He must have had it specially commissioned by letter before our arrival.

Slowly he wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me carefully like something fragile and precious. I let my hand stray up and down his spine. We stayed like that for several minutes then lay back down on the bed just holding each other.


	7. Chapter 7

“Trug, I need wards against the Evil Eye. Where can I get some amulets or incense or something like that?”

  
Her friend looked at her, bemused. “Good morning to you too. I had a wonderful evening, thanks for asking. All is well with my axe and beard. Thanks for waking me up before the first shift bell this morning, and you’re _welcome_ , you’re not in trouble at work.”

  
Gudrun had the grace to look chagrined. She gently touched her forehead to theirs. “I’m sorry Trug, if only you knew, you would understand. I’m sorry. I can’t speak of it. Not yet. I don’t want to put you at risk.”

  
The smile slid off their face and they looked intently into Gudrun’s dark eyes.

  
“I don’t know what you are on about, but I know you well enough to know something has really frightened you. I am here for you but if you are not ready to speak, I am waiting for you. I don’t have an amulet, but I can do this for you.”

  
They went to the box of pigments they used when casting different hues in the metals. Trug approached Gudrun and lifted her beard. There were only two other people in the workshop that day, seated at the far end, but even they could not help casting a curious glance their way. To touch another’s beard in public was not something normally seen outside the bawdier institutions. On her lightly furred chest they used the charcoal to draw a shape then with the blue pigment smeared a circle in the centre. A stylised eye. “Here is a basic protection against the evil eye. That’s all I know but please, know you can come to me, whatever trouble you are in.”

  
They gently touched foreheads then Gudrun was out of the workshop in a burst of leathers and boots.

  
____________

  
Gimli allowed the fine golden hair to flow through his fingers as he sat on the double seat by the fireplace in his room and Legolas lay with his head on Gimli’s lap. Slowly, the elf's eyes closed as Gimli's rough fingers carded through his hair. Legolas' long legs were hanging over the side of the arm of the seat and he smiled in contentment. He breathed out tiny noises of pleasure as Gimli’s hand continued to move in his hair. Gimli murmured, “if I put my pipe down I would have another hand free.”

  
Legolas smiled contentedly.

  
“What would I do with a free hand I wonder?” Gimli growled.

  
And Legolas laughed low in his throat.

  
Gimli’s hand ran over Legolas’s chest as his other hand continued rhythmically running through his hair. Legolas moaned, his musk rising in the air around them.

  
Through the fog Gimli thought to himself. His heart had answered a summons, but whence this summons came was now a matter of public debate. Could it be that Legolas, or another had indeed bewitched him? The feeling inside of him was so strong. The Lady Galadriel was said by some to be a witch. The Lady of the Wood read many hearts and desires. Could it have been that she had planted that desire? To what end?

He looked down at Legolas. Never had he known a heart so pure and he knew he would never twist his will. Another thing Gimli knew with certainty was the goodness of the Lady. Had she not rejected the allure of the ring herself?

Gimli felt shame rush up to meet him. He had threatened to cleave from its shoulders the head of anyone who slandered the Lady and now here he was entertaining the same calumnies. The pressure of the rumours and the general public dislike of the Elf was troubling him. He could not wander the streets with Legolas, but it would not be kind to leave him in his rooms if he went out without him, so they were spending many hours together in one room when they were used to wandering abroad under the open skies. The strain was affecting them both.

  
“I am troubled in mind, Legolas” Gimli said. He knew it would help to speak of it, to purge it from his mind. “I have heard strange words. I have laboured long in thought and fear that I no longer know my heart. Tell me, Legolas, did you use any enchantment upon me or know of any one that did?”

  
Legolas stared at him as one that is stricken. Had an oliphant fallen on him, the impact would have been less. For a long pause he spoke not, while Gimli too remained silent.

  
So startling was the change that Gimli saw him, as if in that moment many years had fallen on his head. Grim was his face, grey-hued and weary. “But, Gimli,” he said at last, “how come you to say such words?” Legolas’ voice now seemed to come from a far-off place.

“With my body did I vow to you. Did I not bind myself to you? I am ever at your service. I know you know this, I felt that knowledge in my own body. I worshipped you, Gimli and still do. You know this.”

  
He spoke softly and now tears shimmered unshed in his eyes. “Gimli, I would have you beside me only of your own free will; and if you wish now or ever to depart, you may do so. I would then sail to the West, and you would need not trouble yourself.”

  
They said no more, and they ate in silence; but Gimli’s eyes were ever upon Legolas, and it was clear that he was in great torment of mind.

  
Gimli got up from his chair and came over and sat in Legolas' lap. He was heavy, but the solid weight pressing into him was welcome. He cupped the smooth face in his hands, then signed _sorry_.

......  
......

  
These were now questions forming in Legolas' own mind that he did not know how to articulate, even to himself. Was it possible that he _had_ enchanted Gimi somehow? He knew only of one other Dwarf and Elf who had loved. Narvi had died before Celebrimbur could wed him, so could it be that it would have ended before that connection were made?

To their knowledge he and Gimli were the only such couple in Middle Earth. Perhaps, Legolas thought, he _had_ caused Gimli's mind to have somehow been affected. Gimli’s body was intoxicating. Had he been overtaken by lust and was now confused? No. He knew it with such a deep certainty that it was the only truth he could hold. He loved Gimli. He loved who he was, he loved him as he was and would change nothing. He would not hold him, bound, if he did not wish it; he had spoken in earnest, even though it would tear at his fea to be apart from him. If the physical aspect of their union were for some reason to end, still would he love him.

  
It was a long time before both could finally sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Gudrun rushed through the streets towards the palace. If she was lucky, she would only need to gain access to the administrative areas and give the name of her workshop, saying she needed to speak with Gloin urgently. They had done enough business with the palace for it not to be outside the realms of possibility that she had business there. She was wearing the uniform of her workshop, and the hungover guard let her through without protest and she was led to Gloin’s office.

Gloin gave a piercing look. “I hadn’t scheduled any appointments this morning, what did you wish to speak to me about?”

By the time she reached Gloin’s office her words had dried up. “It’s important.” Her eyes shifted sideways to his assistant at the desk beside him. She lowered her voice, “about the Elf.”

In Inglishmek Gloin asked for privacy and soon they were in the room alone together.

She lifted her beard and showed him the crude rune of protection. She handed him the charcoal and pigment. He hesitated but then took them and he drew the mark onto his own chest. The lines did not quite meet, and the blue was slightly outside the lines, she wasn’t sure it would still work but she was not about to take such a liberty with Gloin as to draw on his chest.

Gudrun took a deep breath and began, hoping not to sound deranged. “The Elf had cast an enchantment on Gimli. I’m not talking of rumour. I saw it with my own eyes and know it to be true.”

“I know, lass.”

Well that poured water on her forge.

“Then, why don’t you do anything about it?”

Gloin looked tired, like he was collapsing into himself. He tugged on his beard the way Gimli did. “Tell me what can I do? What know I of enchantments? Shall I ask that meddler Tharkûn to help? For all I know it is of his design. Did they not all travel many months together?”

“Am I to return to Elrond for counsel once again? That elf has married the king of Men to his daughter, though he brought them up together! Incest! What knows he of decency and honour? For all we know he helped with the enchantment himself.”

“Am I to speak to the Elvenking? He will sever the enchantment by severing Gimli’s head from his shoulders if he would have it ended. What would you have me do?”

Gudrun sat back in her chair and chewed at her lip. She had not thought further than coming here. She did not know what to do. It wasn’t really any of her business anyway.

“Besides, that is what all the rumours are saying. What made you seek me with such urgency. I did not know you and Gimli were close friends?”

Gudrun felt a blush creeping across her face. “No, it’s just that -, I had thought to ask Gimli to sire a Dwarrowling on me.”

Mahal, she was speaking of this with his father before even he knew. “I would not ask for a relationship or to be wed if he did not wish it.” She continued, feeling a bit shaky inside, but so far still determined to go on with things.

“I had not yet had the chance to discuss it with him. I had offered him - companionship, but he refused, then I saw him with the Elf. With. The Elf.”

She whispered. “With.”

Gloin put his face in his hands, again an unconscious echo of Gimli. “I would be happy for Gimli to find a nice Dwarrowdam like you. Even just an arrangement for Dwarrowlings. I don’t know how to help him either.” The previous evening Gloin had invited Berir to their home. He thought she would be just Gimli’s type, but Gimli had only paid her polite attention and ignored all the subtle manoeuvres that were intended to get him to agree to spend more time together with her.

“Maybe if he were to sire young, the connection to them would be enough to break the enchantment. Or even the act itself…” These were serious matters and unnecessary delicacy in speaking of them would not produce a solution.

“You may be right, lass. You may be right.”

Gloin was silent for a moment. “Dwarrowlings,” he murmured, “and a breaking of the enchantment. But I know that it cannot be forced.” He looked up, and it seemed that he had made some decision; his face was less troubled.

Gudrun walked back to the workshop and continued her day in a contemplative silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Arwen and Aragon were not raised as siblings. My understanding is that she was away from Rivendell during his formative years. It is an example of twisted facts filtering down to the public.


	9. Chapter 9

That evening she sat with Trug at her kitchen table. The remains of their meal lay strewn about them. Trug had ‘found’ a small unopened cask of ale from a street party and brought it with them.

  
Now Trug looked at her with hurt in their eyes. “I don’t mind you and him having bed-sport, but if you had wanted Dwarrowlings why didn’t you come to me? You know I am seeded.”

_Shit. Everything was going wrong._

“I know you only lie with other seeded Dwarves and yes, I know, we could have used other means, but I just didn’t want things to change between us. I did not know how to bring it up with you.”

 _You can blurt it out to Gloin but not your closest friend. What’s wrong with you?_ The words hung, unspoken in the air between them.

“I’m sorry.”

  
Trug was walking with the incense around the small room. They had drawn the mark onto their forehead for protection from elvish magic as they spoke. “This Elf, what’s the benefit of bewitching Gimli?”

“Well, to have some sort of sex slave or something. How would I know?”

“Well, isn’t he already a prince?”

“That’s what they are saying. He’s Thranduil’s get. Not the heir, but still a prince. So what?”

“So, if he’s a prince he already has servants and probably many other Elves ready to lay on their backs for him. Why would he want a Dwarf?”

“They are hundreds and hundreds of years old, I’ve heard. Thousands even. They’ve probably all shagged each other by now in that forest. Bored. That’s what it was.”

“Well, if he was bored, why not go to different Elves, or even Men? Why enchant a Dwarf.” Trug slowly took a sip of the ale, as if it would help them come up with answers.

“I suppose it’s a kink. Like how you always like to keep your boots on even though your sheets end up filthy and sometimes ripped. He fancies a Dwarf and obviously no Dwarf would go with him willingly.”

“The question is why are you getting involved? There are plenty of other Dwarrow who will sire Dwarrowlings on you, and who aren’t under a spell.”

  
_They’re still hurt._

  
“You’re still hurt, aren’t you?”

  
“Is it because it took me so long to finish my apprenticeship and that I have no status?”

  
This shocked Gudrun. “Trug, you know it’s not those things. I just don’t want to weigh you down with parenthood. You’ve said it before that ‘little pebbles in your boots are not something you want’. It’s a choice that’s right for me, and I want you in my life as the friend you’ve always been, not struggling to be a parent with me and come up with money for apprenticeships and that sort of thing. You’re right. With Gimli there won’t be those worries about finances. He can choose how involved he wants to be. Look, even if he stays with the Elf, that’s not off the table. The Elf is hardly going to give him Dwarrowlings, is it?”

  
“Gudrun, I don’t know what you are playing at, but it’s a dangerous game.”

  
Trug took another gulp of their drink then sat back, resigned. Once Gudrun’s eyes lit up with that light of determination, nothing would throw her off course.

  
888

  
By lunchtime, Gloin acknowledged to himself that he was too distracted to be of any use in the office. He hoped he would find Mili at home and that she had not gone to the glass-blowing studio.

  
Her craft was a strange one for a Dwarf. Of course, much of what she produced was practical in nature; glass panes to let in the light but keep out the rain and cold from the many small openings which had been made in the mountain over the years, and mirrors to bounce both natural and torchlight around the mountain. Her delight though, was in the twisting ornaments she made, delicate things catching and bending the light. They did not last long of course. So many smashed and only a few precious, favourite pieces had survived the years, most of them the ones secure behind a glass-fronted cabinet. She was never upset when they broke. She said that was the nature of things and to enjoy the beauty of it while the moment lasted.

When he reached their home, Mili was in the kitchen sharpening knives. He would rather she have been writing, or choosing pigment or something less _sharp_ as he broached the topic of conversation.

He tugged at his beard.

Then Gloin reached out and put a hand over Mili’s. ”Amrâlimê,” he began, clearing his throat. “One of Gimli’s friends came to see me this morning.”

“Oh?” She continued polishing.

  
_Baruk Khazâd,_ he thought to himself. “She wishes to offer Gimli azlâf for the sake of Dwarrowlings.”

  
There was a long pause before she spoke. “But Gimli is wed, and you know Legolas would not want that.” Her expression was touched with a ghost of pain.

“That Elf is no spouse to my son. They are not wed.” Despite the chill in the room he continued. “In fact, it would be good for the lad, might help him return to his senses. Wouldn’t you want to see a Dwarrowling about the place?”

Now Mili spoke in a matter-of-fact tone as if she were discussing nothing more unusual than an order of coal, needed for a furnace. “You know our son. Once his mind is made it will not change. He wants this Elf.”

  
Gloin now took on a placating tone, he did not know whom he was begging. Maybe himself. “If he keeps the Elf in the background, in private, they can continue. In private. He can visit him in Mirkwood from time to time. Here, under the mountain he can have a Dwarf by his side. A decent Dwarf. Or even without a Dwarf by his side, if he wants, they can just share Dwarrowlings. He can still live a normal life. Isn’t that what we’ve always wanted for him, for him to be happy?”

“The Elf makes him happy. You can see that.”

“The Elf sows nothing but discord.”

“Gloin, why would Gimli have told the Elf his Name?”

_Fuck_

Gimli had not told him this. Why would he have done that? To share his dark name, which only Gloin and Mili and Gimli knew. And now this Elf.

  
_Enchantment._

  
A voice at the back of his head tingled. But would Mahal have permitted an Elf to steal the dark Name of one of his children with strange magiks and enchantment? Does he not watch over us? Gloin did not want to think about all this. He went to his room and decided to look at paperwork for the rest of the day. Some important trades were coming up and he wished to be as prepared as he could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baruk Khazâd, a war cry meaning ‘the axes of the dwarves’  
> Azlâf means betrothal but I have taken it to mean other kinds of arrangement too.  
> Both phrases from thedwarrowscholar.com
> 
> "Pebble" referring to baby dwarves is an invention of @HattedHedgehog on tumblr!


	10. Chapter 10

At my request, Gimli brought into our room a small bowl of fragrant oil. Over the sheets I spread the rough canvas I used to sleep on when the ground was wet outdoors. The mountain had a complicated system whereby every two days dirty laundry was collected and then returned the next day, clean and pressed, but all the same, I did not wish to stain the sheets with oil. “They are already stained, love,” Gimli said, and I felt the blush creeping up my neck, my face, even to my ear tips.

Gimli then made a happy rumbling sound, like a boulder rolling down a hill as he laughed, then he lay on his stomach as I warmed some of the oil in my hands. He sighed with relief as I pressed into muscles tense from a day of diplomatic engagements. “Thank you, Legolas," he sighed, as I worked and kneaded.

"Thank, _you,_ " I murmured as I cast my gaze over his broad back and stout thighs. By the time I massaged his legs he was asleep. I felt my mouth form a moue of disappointment. I put the oil away, and stripped off my clothes. I hesitated, then blew out the lamp and curled down to lay beside him and pulled the covers over us.

Hours later, I slipped out of reverie to find his hand seeking mine. Helpless, I grasped it. Then I reached out and took him into my arms. I drew him close until his head rested on my shoulder with my cheek pressed against his beard. I loved the feel of it scratching against me and reassuring me of his presence.

He shifted in the bed trying to get comfortable. “Ghivashel,” I whispered. I knew I could still not make it sound as gravelly as it should. Unwinding his body, Gimli adjusted himself. He placed his hand on my shoulder and I could not help shivering at the touch and the reassurance it gave me.

In this total dark, I was sometimes more than a little frightened. Under the stone, Gimli seemed to feel cocooned, embraced by the earth. I felt as if I were about to be crushed.

He slid himself down slightly, pressing flush against my body. "I want to be close to you," he murmured in my ear.

I nodded.

His mouth found mine, then after a few moments he gently turned me over to lay on my stomach and slowly began preparing me. He must have found the oil in the dark. I reached out to touch him and he said "shhhhh," and I relaxed into the feeling, the pleasure surging until I could not keep still and not keep quiet. His moans at my pleasure filled the darkness. I felt his heavy weight as he mounted and breached me and then relaxed into the slow steady movement as Gimli set the pace. Then fast but not frantic. Each thrust was angled to send a jolt of sensation through me. So well did he know my body, and even to this he brought the skill of a craftsman. I felt as if we were dissolving into each other. His hand reached underneath me and I keened at the sensation. In response to my sounds I felt his whole body tense, which triggered my own release. Our breaths were torn and ragged as if once again we were running the plains of Rohan. It was not always athletic displays or marathon feats of dwarven endurance. We were not always maddened by passion or consumed by desire. Sometimes it was just easy, and comfortable and simple.

I felt myself drifting into true sleep. I heard the crack of the flint, and the sound of water. He had taken a clean cloth to clean us both. Then he brought the lamp close. I felt his blunt fingers once again in my opening and jolted at the touch to the oversensitive area. "Just checking," he said. I heard him blow out the lamp then settle back into bed. He murmured words of love into my shoulder. Some which I knew and some which I did not. 

I lay with Gimli holding onto me. We lay now with his hand resting heavily on my shoulder and my back pressed to his chest, his arm covering mine and holding it against him and we now lay sated. I pressed him close.

“Melleth nin,” he said, his voice soft and gravelly.

The last thing I knew was the brush of his beard on my back as I fell not into reverie but true sleep.

I took a slow deep breath afraid to move lest I wake him. Many had been the nights on our travels when I had longed, but with a seemingly futile longing, to wake like this. With him holding me, his body pressed to mine. I did not want this moment to end. Eventually Gimli turned over of his own accord. I brushed my hand gently over his waist and rested my cheek on his tangled hair and delighted in the rise and fall of his chest. He did not stir again at my touch and I had known he would not, as he was not in the light slumber of the battlefield but in the restful repose of one who knows he is safe in his own home. I breathed in deeply, inhaling the warm, stony scent of him and cherishing it in memory. I gently touched my forehead to his then carefully climbed out of the low bed and pulled on my tunic and trews.

  
On the first day, Gimli had insisted that a lamp remained lit at all hours in the common areas for my sake. Gloin had grumbled about wasting lamp fuel and muttering that he didn't shit diamonds to pay for that. He had ignored Gimli's response that his share of the dragon's hoard made him one of the richest dwarves in Erebor and that they could afford to keep the lights on. Gimli himself had placed a gold coin on the table then Gloin had stormed off.

It was still in the early hours of the morning. I lit the fire quietly and sat in the living room. I held in my hands Gimli’s double-headed battle axe. I held it almost tenderly, my fingers tracing over the runes of protection. I recalled that the first thing I had actually liked about Gimli was his skill with the axe. I had never thought it could be something elegant; ‘the dance of the axe’ he called it.

  
With a finely woven cloth I was working the head of Gimli’s axe to a bright shine and it looked like the surface of a still clear lake on a bright day. Points of light danced as they reflected the flames. I worked on the underside, then the top. With my breath I blew on the mirrored surface and then continued in polishing, as if it were a meditation. Methodically and with unvarying speed I polished.

  
Mili stood watching from the door of the chamber she shared with Gloin. She shifted on her feet and Legolas started at the sound, looking almost guilty.

“He has granted me leave.”

“Did you know that it is a rare honour to be granted leave to touch another’s weapon unsheathed? Often even family or spouses are not given the privilege.”

Legolas answered truthfully. “In the first instance I knew it not. For my people it is the same as with Dwarrow. Other than the weapons-smith, my unsheathed weapon has been handled by none but Gimli. Many months into our journeying together Gimli began to hand me his weapon. I thought Dwarrow were perhaps Mannish in this, but in time I saw that he allowed only my hands to touch the blades. That is not speaking of the many Orcs who felt the blade's touch as the last thing they experienced on Arda." At this Legolas gave a grim smile. He continued. "When I asked of him why he would allow my hands to touch it but not those of his brothers in arms he gave no answer.”

Legolas thought of his white knives and bow of the Galadhrim. They had been confiscated after his arrival in Erebor. “Sorely does it grieve me to have my arms in the custody of your Battle Chief, but I will abide by the laws of your people.”

Mili said nothing as she slipped back into her room.

888

  
That evening, Gloin broke the silence.

  
“Why does he have sticks in his hair?”

After three days, these were the first words Gloin had directly addressed to Legolas. His wife drew a sharp intake of breath. Gimli put his book down slowly and looked between his father and his One. They were all sitting in chairs beside the fire, official engagements over for the day. Legolas looked so awkward trying to fit into the Dwarf-sized chair.

For a few more beats the silence continued.

Legolas spoke in measured tones. “When my grandsire, king Oropher was killed while fighting, my father was crowned on the battlefield. My grandsire’s mithril crown was lost with him in the Dead Marshes. Father was crowned with a wreath of leaves, and since that day has not worn a crown of precious metals or gems, though he favours silver, true silver and white gems for other adornments. The crowns he wears change throughout the seasons. Sometimes spring blossoms, sometimes autumn reds,” He glanced at Gimli’s beard as he said this, with a tiny smile. He continued without a pause. “Sometimes summer greenery. The twigs you speak of would have been his winter-crown. Even though they just look like twigs, he wears them instead of evergreens, because he says there is beauty in everything. In the twigs is the promise of new life at the turn of the seasons.”

  
The silence came back down around them but was lighter, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've made it this far into the story please consider leaving a comment. Positive or negative, I just want to know how people feel about it.
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has ever needed a nightlight.


	11. Chapter 11

For the past three days Gudrun had locked herself in her rooms. The workshop was too public for this. She had asked Trug to excuse her to the Master and Trug had even agreed to finish the commissions which were due before her return. They had not been particularly enthusiastic, but they were the most reliable person she knew and Gudrun knew she did not have to worry about work at least.

She had purchased multiple reels of steel thread as well as two of copper and one small reel of pulled silver. She could not afford gold or mithril, but in any case, gold would have looked wrong. She knitted and twisted and hooked. As she worked, time seemed to melt away.

Normally such an offering would need more time, but who could say when he might depart? The talk about a new settlement is sounding more official now, not just rumours. When would the opportunity arise again? In fact, if his parents are to be left behind while he is pioneering, a dwarrowling in Erebor would be a comfort to them. They are too old to help in establishing a new settlement. The days of dragons are long past for Gloin. He is a whitebeard now and should be allowed to enjoy the delvings of his arm.

She must do the best she can with the time she had. Her hands knew what to do and the years of practice and dedication allowed the tiny links to flow forth, almost as if they were living things growing from her needles. With the two thin needles she created linked chains, looping them through and securing them with tassels and when her hands began to cramp, she rested.

She made herself a hot drink and the warmth of the cup eased the cramps in her hand. She could not see how this could not succeed. Everybody would be happy. Mili and Gloin would have a reminder of their son when he went away and their line would continue, Gimli would have the child an Elf could not give. The Elf should be happy. The rumours would die down if Gimli had a respectable dam by his side, even if it was just a sham. And no one would be forced to look at that deformed-looking elvish face. She spat and it sizzled in the hearth. She was doing them all a favour as much as they would be helping her to get what she wanted.

Finally, she was happy with her work. She wanted to do the right thing and not to step wrongly. Presentation was important, so late that third morning she laid it out on a Durin Blue velvet cloth, ready to be received. She gave a coin to the little neighbour pebble to deliver a message and another coin to wait for and bring back the reply.

She had not even finished cleaning her workbench when she received the return message. _At the gong for third shift they would be ready to receive her._

She had thought about asking Trug to come with her, to lend her strength, but the matter was still a sensitive one between them and she did not wish to wake sleeping wargs. Besides, the fewer people directly involved the better. Gimli’s father, and surely his mother too, were already aware, and the Elf was more than involved. She steeled herself and walked out of the door. She had on her blue skirt again, of course. It was the only one she had which looked decent. In the pocket of her belt was an amulet Trug said they had bought for her at the market to ward against the evil eye.

Once she was sitting in the spacious reception room of Gimli’s parents’ home she decided to launch into her prepared speech without preamble. The enchantment may eventually prevent her from speaking if she didn’t simply lose her nerve at the sight of Gimli, his mother and father and the Elf looking intently at her.

“Master Elf, I do not know for what purpose you have enchanted Gimli, but I wish you to know I mean him no harm. As a gesture of goodwill and as a formal declaration of azlâf, I have brought you a gift.” She laid the blue velvet on the small table in front of him. “I can shield you from public speculation about your relationship if you would allow it. Of course, I cannot force Gimli to do anything against his will.” She caught Gimli’s eye and continued in a rush. “I wish only to have him sire my Dwarrowlings and leave you both in peace.” The Elf stood suddenly. Gimli quickly stepped in front of him.

“Gudrun, I think you should leave. Now.” Gimli's voice carried a note of warning and she scrambled up from her seat then stood frozen. Gloin’s large solid hand was on her elbow and he led her gently but firmly to the door. Without taking her leave she rushed out onto the street, leaving the door open behind her in her haste.

As she walked the distance back to her home she mused. A part of him must be disgusted. Perhaps beneath the enchantment Gimli would be glad of what she had provided and to not have to see that raw chin every time he looked upon him. She had even included tassels so they could braid in whichever patterns they desired.

  
_Of course, I would never force myself on him_. Her thoughts strayed to the kiss then she damped down that uncomfortable memory. The proposal had now been made. Not as formally as required and not as intimately as she had hoped, but Gimli was now aware and could consider the idea.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to anyone who has had a relationship which has faced outside interference.
> 
> Comments are welcome.


	12. Chapter 12

“Legolas, I know more than you imagine about how you might be feeling.” Mili stood beside him and gestured for him to sit back down in the low chair. Her voice was low and her gentle hand was on his shoulder. Gimli's hand was on his other shoulder.

Legolas was trembling slightly and his breath was like a bull's, rushing from his nostrils as if control of his breath was the last restraint keeping him from raging.

“I saw your face when all those Dwarrow were flinging themselves at Gimli at the feast. I saw your face just now.”

Legolas flinched and he held himself as if some great weight bore down on him.

Mili continued in a compassionate, but no-nonsense tone. “Legolas, I am wed to a ‘Hero of Erebor’. How many Dwarrow do you think I have had asking me formally if I would ‘share Gloin with them’, or even just have him sire Dwarrowlings on them? And then there were those who did not bother with any formal requests, and would just turn up, freshly braided, wherever Gloin would be? Legolas, Gimli loves you and he will not hurt you.”

Gloin caught Mili's eye from where he stood, having closed the door behind Gudrun.

“The kind of love I have for Gloin does not allow me to share him in that way. It is a jealous love. Not all Dwarrow are thus. I understand how you feel more than you may think. And know that if Gimli had wanted a bearded-one, his heart would not have led him to you.”

Tears welled up in Legolas’ eyes.

Gloin looked away.

Legolas was still trembling, both with suppressed rage and something more raw, more fragile.

Gimli had cast an appraising glance briefly over Gudrun’s gift to Legolas; the habit of one who also worked with delicate jewellery. He could not fault the craftmanship. Each link of the chains looked even and uniform and there were skilful highlights of silver and copper. But looking at it, he felt something sad and powerful moving through him. A fierce and protective love. Something Elvish must have woken up inside him. He wished for his One to be smooth. He wished to see the blush rise up on his cheeks and down his neck. To see his freckles, aye freckles, which rose after days under a baking sun. He wanted that smooth chin. He looked at Gudrun’s creation.

_A beard._

Chains were in place to loop over and behind his ears and link at the back of his head. At the back of his mind Gimli noted the ingenuity of the clasp she had used.

He thought of how, in the first days of their acquaintance he had initially been repulsed by the hairlessness of the Elves, but then, with a suddenness which had surprised him, in his heart had leapt up a flame of desire for that smooth face. Probably, it had been smouldering since Lorien, since Helm’s Deep. He did not know. Then one day the flame had leapt up and blazed until all he could think of was that smooth chest. The thought of his own thick hands, plundering hands sliding across that smooth expanse and those elongated fingers exploring him all over in return had consumed him. Gimli looked again at the false beard and shuddered at the sight of it.

  
When Gudrun had laid her gift on the table, Gimli had reacted with speed to intercept Legolas and Gloin had acted quickly to send Gudrun away. As she was not fully trained as a warrior, Gimli did not think Gudrun had even realised how close she had come to danger, but he knew Gloin had seen. Legolas’ battle stance had revealed him to be a coiled spring. At the tiniest gust of wind, he could have sprung at her and ripped her to shreds. With that fey look in his eyes he would have used his teeth in the absence of a blade.

  
Now he seemed suddenly exhausted and when Legolas had sat down, still trembling, Gimli saw in him the strain of being under the mountain as well as from his treatment over the past few days. He had half a mind to throw the metal mesh work into the fire. Suddenly he found the anger had died down, replaced with a fierce protectiveness as Legolas looked at him with eyes shining in the firelight.

  
“Do you wish me to wear it?”

  
Gloin looked as if he was about to speak. Gimli scowled so angrily at Gloin that the dwarf shrunk back; and when he looked as if he were about to open his mouth again, Mili turned and frowned at him until Gloin looked down, subdued.

  
“Never.” Gimli rasped back, something strangely caught in his throat. _No,_ he signed with his hands.

Even Gloin remained silent and half turned away.

Legolas knew that tales of the enchantments of his homeland had reached Erebor; there was the enchanted stream that caused forgetfulness and there were enchanted doors. Gimli had shared that every young child under the mountain begged for the tale of ‘the fall of Smaug’ as a bedtime story, and ‘the wicked Elvenking’ had featured prominently in this.

Despite this, Legolas had not thought that Dwarrow would think Elves would or could force another in this way. To touch another intimately without their permission, to force one to be with another without both being willing, these were grievous crimes and unheard of in Elfendom. He knew that Dwarrow punished such crimes with the sentence of death. Why was the evidence of their own eyes not enough to convince them that he and Gimli were together without the aid of any enchantments?

Legolas looked at Gloin. "Do you really believe I have enchanted Gimli?" He asked in a small voice.

Gloin gave no answer.

Gimli couldn’t bear it any longer: the sight of his Elf, his One looking so angry, and hurt, and dispirited all at once. He felt a call to action, and it burst forth. He needed to get Legolas out under the sky.

“Come with me, love,” said Gimli.

  
“Where are you going?” asked Mili, in a gentle tone that seemed to show she had guessed at least some of the thoughts running through Gimli’s mind.

  
Gimli slung his axe over his back and gestured in Inglishmek. _Out_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Gudrun's offer?


	13. Chapter 13

Arod was stabled with the war goats close to the pastures on the far side of the mountain.

  
Gimli knew Legolas needed to be out from under the stone and preferably away from it too, if only for a few hours. He had never seen Legolas so close to losing control.

The afternoon was ending and after a brief greeting and Gimli’s exchange of pleasantries with the gate guards they were allowed to pass through. A wary look was cast at Legolas, but as he was unarmed and _leaving_ the mountain, they did not place him under too much scrutiny. Nevertheless, Legolas could feel the eyes of the guards on his back as Arod meandered slowly away from the mountain.

Without saddle or tack Arod carried them and as they rode Legolas stroked the horse’s face and spoke gentle nonsense in his ear, glad to be with one so friendly after the hostility of Erebor.

Legolas did not seem to have a destination in mind, his desire being simply to put distance between himself and the mountain. They rode on, the air still heavy between them. Legolas could still not speak. Gimli tried to speak of things that would bring them joy and would not weigh too heavily on their hearts.

After an hour or so Gimli stopped the horse. Arod sometimes listened to him now.

Gimli did not need to wait for Legolas to speak. He simply responded to the words hanging between them. "Ghivashel, I am sorry. I knew not that Gudrun would be coming nor about what she planned to say." Gimli hesitated, "Yes - I had always thought I would find a dam one day and have a child of my own, but I want _you_ more. You met my cousins from the line of Oin and from the line of Li. The line is in no danger of dying out, and even if it were, then that would be what Mahal had willed. Even if I did not physically join with another to get a child, I know the intimacy of sharing a child with another is not something an Elven marriage can accommodate. When you explained to me what Elven marriage meant, I understood that there would be no children. That is not a heartbreak for me as the path that led me to that reality is the same path that led me to you, and I can only bless it and sing its praise."

Legolas looked over his shoulder to face me. Here was one who knew me so well. Better than any under the mountain. I held him as he sobbed, his anger turned to tears. I caught Arod's eye, who seemed to be chiding me for having somehow brought Legolas to tears. It would obviously be my fault. A flick of his ears seemed to add disdain, that I could not even lead Legolas, a wood elf, to a nice tree to have his cry under. I did as I always did and tried to ignore the horse. 

The quality of Legolas' breathing changed.

There was always the temptation to use _bed_ as a salve. To distract from the issues and challenges the relationship faced without talking and reaching an understanding. But sometimes the rawness of the emotions could only be met by the dance of our bodies entwined.

I relished the feel of his body as he pressed against me. I could not help smiling against his lips as Legolas kissed me. He moaned and I wanted to keep hearing that sound.

He whimpered into my mouth dark and desperate.

It sent sparks through me and raised gooseflesh all over my body. Legolas shivered as I moved, as I pressed against him, his breath quickening. He gasped against me. I wanted him beneath me. His pulse was fluttering like a bird’s wings. I found myself moaning softly.

Gimli whispered, “both my body and my heart belong to you and no one else.”

_________________ 

After the battle of Helm’s Deep, Legolas had known that his heart was bound to Gimli’s, regardless of whether or not they would be wed. He had feared risking the friendship they had. He spoke not of it but the lingering glances between them stretched out. The heat of Gimli’s bulk as he sat behind him had warmed his spirit. Legolas had wanted to hold him, to embrace him, to taste his skin, but instead, with the tip of his smallest finger touched the side of Gimli’s hand as it rested on Legolas' waist. Gimli had just given him a quizzical look.

  
Before the ringbearers succeeded in their task, when riding on Arod together, we had always weighty matters on our minds. We would be riding to our doom, or were weighed down with concern for our friends and loved ones, near and far. The spectre of death loomed over us in many ways; the knowledge that every moment could be our last. The shadow of death loomed over us as the Army of the Dead followed or in our fears for soft Hobbits as they walked into Mordor or when we feared that Orcs had taken the Hobbits to Isengard.

Gimli remembered an incident which had taken place days after the final battle. He and Legolas were lodged in a fine house in Minas Tirith together with Gandalf and the Hobbits. Gimli had asked for a bath. He had at first attempted to lower himself in, groaning quietly as he moved, but getting in was more difficult than he had anticipated due to the many bruises of the battle. The welts and bruises were large and small, on his arms, legs and torso; some were from falling off Arod. Legolas had had to help lower him into the tub. On the orders of the healers the shallow water only reached his hips, and to his chagrin he had found that it was not deep enough to cover the embarrassing response his body had had to Legolas’ embrace as he lowered him into the water. He had hoped Legolas had not seen as he had left quickly, as was his wont, to give him his privacy. Gimli had had to take himself in hand, with thoughts of the Elf writhing beneath him, racing into his mind, unbidden.

Now days after what Gimli was calling in his mind 'the bath incident', they had ridden together outside Minas Tirith on an excursion suggested by Aragorn. For once, they had had no cares pressing down on them. Aragorn was crowned and his chosen queen was journeying to Gondor. That had been planned as a surprise, but Frodo had known and had told Sam, and honest-hearted Sam had blurted out the secret and had then spent the evening mortified with himself, and attempting to stammer out apologies. News had come from Erebor and Mirkwood that their kin yet lived. All the Hobbits were out of danger and recovering from their trials. For once they could just enjoy the day.

As they rocked together on Arod, with Minas Tirith's terraces above them, Gimli’s mind kept casting back to 'the bath incident'. He recalled the sensation of Legolas’ arms tight around him. Of his bare chest pressed against Legolas. Gimli was glad of his leather jerkin, that Legolas would not feel his building heat and hardness of his length as they rode. He took his hands off Legolas’ waist and put his hands behind him to try and stay on the horse without falling off but without touching Legolas. It was indecent to have such thoughts and hold Legolas with him unawares. The loss of contact did not do anything to ease the growing pressure. The heat increased in his lower parts and spread to his inner thighs, to his nipples. _Mahal!_ Not since he was a lad of fifty had he been unable to still himself. _Mahal_.

His breath now came in shallow puffs. Without conscious volition he began to move minutely, rocking in counterpoint to the movement of the horse. Trying to avoid pressing against Legolas’ back. Again, unbidden, he imagined the rocking motion but in a bed. Suddenly, Arod stepped on some shifting ground and with a low moan, Gimli was forced to hold onto Legolas again, gripping him forcefully. All of a sudden, Legolas’ warmth, the smell of his hair, his lithe back pressed against Gimli’s face. It was too much and with a groan of shame Gimli spent himself inside his trews. He trembled and tightened his grip for a few seconds – they seemed longer. Then relaxed his hands.

Before him Legolas’ back stiffened. Horrifying moments of still silence passed. Then he turned and looked at him and said. “Gimli, you have spent.”

I was ashamed, but would not do him the discourtesy of hiding my face or attempting an untruth. “Forgive me-,“ But as I raised my eyes, his face was not the picture of anger and disgust I was awaiting. Legolas’ eyes were nearly black. On another face I would have known it for desire, but surely not!

I had to speak that which I had promised myself to hold in the depths of my heart. I feared his disdain, that he would reject our friendship, cast me aside, but despite this, my tongue ran headlong into uncharted areas, regardless of the peril. “Legolas,” It was almost as if I were watching myself speak as a dispassionate outside observer. “Legolas, in these months we have journeyed together I have felt something awaken in my heart. ‘Tis not sport, nor regard for a shield brother nor base lust. I know you for my heart’s own One.”

Legolas looked at him and in that gaze he felt all the ages of the world pass away, then Legolas turned from him.

  
“I cannot be hasty in this,” was all Legolas said and they had ridden back to Minas Tirith in silence.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback on any spelling and grammatical errors is welcome as are any other comments.


	14. Chapter 14

That evening, when the Hobbits had retired and Gandalf was doing Mahal knows what, Legolas came into my room.

“Gimli, my people-,” He faltered. “We have no bed sport for fun. For me, this will mean we are wed.”

I looked panicked.

As if he read my mind he continued. “Not what happened this afternoon. Just because you released your seed does not make us wed. Only with the will and intent to form a bond would that be so. And without love for you already present in me, there would be no desire for a joining. I am not able to love you only physically without a desire to love you in all ways.”

The air was taken from the room. All of my choices in life came down to this moment. Would I live with the Elf or without him? The universe shifted. I could not imagine living without him.

......

......

  
I sat on the low bed looking at Gimli as he slowly undressed. I began to unlace my tunic, but he made the Inglishmek sign _wait_. After Mithrandir had fallen, Gimli had begun to teach the remainder of the Fellowship the dwarvish warrior sign-language. He said it could save our lives and he would not lose any of the Fellowship for the sake of a taboo. He asked only that we not teach others and if possible, keep our own knowledge hidden from any who were not dwarrow. The dwarves we met in Minas Tirith had been furious when Gimli told them we understood their signs, but Gimli simply said it would be worse if he had allowed them to think they were signing privately when the Fellowship could understand, and said that he did not regret providing a tool to the Fellowship which may have saved our lives.

Gimli took a deep breath and signed again _wait._

Without a word Gimli had slowly stripped bare. He was hard for me already, just as I was aroused with want of him. He looked nothing like an Elf. He was stout and sturdy and broad. His thick legs and abundant hair were unmistakably Dwarven and he stood at full height, to my sternum.

Clear-eyed he gazed at me and his eyes said everything. They were so raw, so open, so tender. I was looking right into the centre of his soul and found there only love. He stood feet planted as at the line of battle. He was offering himself, his whole self.

His lashes were wet and when I ran a thumb over the glimmer, it came away warm and damp. We were both under no illusion that this would be easy, that we would be accepted by the world we had helped save.

That was a small acorn, compared to the towering expanse of my love for him. I opened out my arms in acceptance. In welcome.

Still we did not speak. The silence was too sacred to mar with speech.

Carefully, Gimli removed my boots, my clothes until I was as naked as he. His touches were so painfully gentle, as if he were scared to break me. My fingers tangled in his beard and his lips brushed lightly against mine, his eyes closed. He pressed one broad palm on my chest. Over my heart. He kissed me with a soft and gentle attention. He gave a rumbling chuckle against my lips and at that I opened my mouth slightly. The press of his soft lips was joined by his tongue, gently brushing between my lips. Ai!

His hands brushed against my bare skin sending sparks through my body. The pink, sweet curve of his lips pressed to mine again and again. He kissed me more deeply and now with a controlled power reminding me of his purposeful, steady run into battle. His mouth set something in me ablaze. I pulled away from him and let my head fall to rest on his shoulder, and panted for breath.

His breath on my ear sent a shiver along my spine and I moaned softly. His hand teased at my nipple and all I could do was hold tightly onto his shoulders, as if without that ballast I would fall off the earth. Gimli drew in a long, heavy breath and his beard tickled my face. By the shudders I could tell he was as affected by this as I was. He continued to tease my nipple, circling it with his rough finger. I could not help it as my back arched and I groaned. I was so hard and his need pressed against my stomach as we now lay together on the bed.

The evening sun illuminated our lovemaking. We took our pleasure face to face

He gripped me with one hand, the other continuing to tease my nipple, then he stroked my back, my side, my flanks and between my legs. He squeezed my backside, then slid his hand to gently cup me. A rush of the most indescribable peace washed over me, and all strength left my body. He held me in his arms through the tremors. As I drifted, I felt his hand move in a sticky trail and his broad arms held me close as I fell not into reverie, but into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  
***

  
For a long while, I held him in his sleep. Then I rose and with a handkerchief I cleaned his release from him then lay back beside him, thinking. I had ached with wanting him, but I wanted to treasure every moment. Legolas’ eyes had been glazed as if he could not believe what was happening. As if not under my control, my hands had moved over his body, and he thrust against me, heat building. The sight of him, burning, wanting was almost too much. I could see the desire and need there but my touch was focused on brushing against every inch of him. Then he thrust up into my closed fist, velvety smooth the skin. My hips had twitched as they fought the urge to thrust against him. I was on the edge and we both moaned and shivered. A warm glow ran over him.

“Hervenn,” he had said softly. “Husband.”

Legolas beamed with pure joy and contentment, and as both of us sweated and gasped for breath. Even in the aftermath of our lovemaking, I had no desire to be parted from him, even those few small units of measure. The boundaries of our bodies had been blurred for a moment we had shared a soul. Afterwards there was such joy in simply lying against him and I still trembled with the intensity of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you feel so inclined. I appreciate each and every one of you.


	15. Chapter 15

We had ridden at a slow walk for about an hour then paused in the shadow of a copse of trees which lay close to a small outcropping of rock. Erebor was behind us and Legolas seemed to have drawn strength from the growing things around us.

Legolas lifted his leg then swung it to the side, so that he was now seated side-saddle in the manner of the women of Gondor. Then he leaned back and twisted again, bringing round his other leg so that he was now facing opposite to the direction of travel. Our legs tangled together.

Now Legolas spoke. “Gimli-nin. I am thinking of another time on Arod, that started all this. On that day, I recall that I was riding, singing with the birds, listening to the messages on the wind, as you sat behind me. Suddenly, I could smell your desire. I could smell the salt, not just of your sweat, but a new smell. Your seed. I wanted nothing more than to taste it.” Legolas traced a soft finger on Gimli’s cheek and smiled a smile full of _intent_.

Legolas leaned down for a kiss then felt an arrow rushing past his head. The setting sun dazzled his eyes. He would not otherwise have missed the movement from the shadows by the trees. The flash of metal now gave the enemy's position away. Legolas’ hands acted of their own volition. He reached for Gimli’s throwing axe and in an instant, it was arcing towards the Orc’s throat.

But lo! Arod had reared and screamed. With a cry of hatred that stung the ears like venom, as the Orc fell there came another deadly flying dart. A moment later he heard a dull impact. Something had pierced Arod, and the blood was already staining his flanks red. No. It was Gimli. Gimli had been hit! His heart cried out within him.

As Arod reared again I saw Gimli lose his balance, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a frozen cry of astonishment as he fell. Gimli struck the stony ground. Then there was only hard, cold silence.

“Gimli!” I shouted, but Gimli made no answer. He did not open his eyes or look up. Legolas felt lightheaded for a long moment.

With a cry of bitter pain Legolas leapt from the horse, and in grief and dismay fell upon Gimli. As Legolas bent over him, tears blinded him and through a mist he looked on and with another part of his mind noticed the dust and grit now in Gimli’s hair as he lay still on the ground and did not move. Legolas folded in on himself as one who is pierced by an arrow through his heart; and then his face went deathly white; and a cold fury rose.

I took the battle axe and held it ready in case more Orcs sprung out at us.

I scanned the area. The Orc seemed to have been alone. The Orcs which had fled from battlefields were still causing trouble, scrounging and scavenging. It must have escaped the many raiding parties which had been picking off Orcs, by hiding in this copse of trees and rock.

It was only Gimli’s faint groan that broke me from startled immobility. I gathered him up in my arms and placed him on Arod’s back balancing him against the horse. Arod held still as I sprung up, then I cradled Gimli’s limp form. His faint movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, and his breathing was laboured.

“Legolas,” he whispered. Then Gimli said his own secret dark Name. “Remember my Name so you can find me.” A terrible rage took me, and I urged Arod to ride on, faster than he had ever done before.

Arod knew the way back. All Legolas could do was hold onto Gimli and pray that they did not fall off. The arrow still protruded from Gimli’s side. He was not in any sort of armour and only chance had allowed the blow not to fall at his centre mass. Legolas knew that to remove it without healers present could cause Gimli to lose the entire volume of his lifeblood in moments. Minutes passed and Legolas grew more frantic and cold fear pooled in his chest replacing the anger as he saw the dark stain spreading. His prayers became a chant. Gimli’s breathing became more laboured. Was this his punishment for taking a Dwarf to spouse? To have watched him survive the battlefield, only to watch his lifeblood spill through his hands onto the stones from which he claimed to have sprung? “Forgive me, Gimli. It is my fault; I should have kept watch.”

“Ride on!” cried Legolas. “It is haste we need, Arod. Ride on!” He could speak now only words of Silvan, the tongue his dark-haired mother had whispered at his cradle. Arod still understood the utter desperation in his master’s voice.

Almost unexpectedly, through the fading half-light they came on the guards at the gates of Erebor.

In the deepening dusk the rising moon was obscured by a great sailing cloud, but suddenly it rode out clear again. The guards at the gate all heard the sound of hooves, and at the same moment they saw a dark shape coming swiftly from the side of the mountain. The twilight glinted here and there on the points of their spears. When the horse was some fifty paces off, the stout Dwarf they had spoken to as they left the mountain cried out in a loud voice:

“Halt! Halt! Who goes there?”

Arod came to a sudden stand. A silence followed: and then, a horseman could be seen dismounting bearing a burden. He ran forward, stumbling as one that is blind. Legolas dropped the battle axe, now covered in blood, then lowered Gimli’s insensate form on the ground as gently as he could, with the missile still protruding from his side.

Two guards snatched Gimli up and another put his blade to Legolas’ throat, and once again time began to move more slowly. In that silent waste the last hope seemed to bleed out of him, for now he saw one side of Arod’s white coat was covered in Gimli’s blood.

In his despair Legolas came upon an unexpected valley in his mind’s eye, narrow, but with deep sides. It opened out suddenly and to his surprise it seemed to offer peace and light. He knew this was a valley one could never climb from. It offered him release from the torment. An Elf who fell into this embrace would never have to come out again, to face the pain. But Legolas had to be sure. Gimli’s face had been grey, but if he yet lived… Legolas stepped back from the precipice in his mind. He could hear the voices around him. He felt his hands bound but offered no resistance.

Then one blew a long call on a horn. Other horns answered it and Dwarrow rushed forth from the mountain.

At the edge of his vision he saw Dwarrow move towards him. They dragged Legolas – not too gently, for they did not love Elves and saw that he had killed Gimli. From ancient days the Elves had been their enemies. The Greybeard guard assessed the situation. “This news should be told to Stonehelm at once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to all the silent readers. The lurkers, those who leave hits. Thanks also to those who leave kudos, those who leave emojis, short comments and those who leave long ones. You are all very welcome here and thanks for reading. I used to feel like the authors would not care about my comment or that it would be stupid or boring or that it is too many days/weeks/years after the story posted. Please don’t feel like that here. I would love to hear from you about how you see the story, to hear one thing you liked about it or anything you want to say. Even if you remain lurking, as I did for years, you are very welcome here.


	16. Chapter 16

At the sound of the alarm, the mountain went into a state of high alert. Shops were shuttered and forges extinguished. Pickpockets took advantage of the chaos as Dwarrow tried to run to their homes or to pre-arranged strategic locations. Dwarrowlings were led quickly to the deepest mines, their feet quick to follow the route, guided by years of drills, as well as by memories of the all too real events of the previous year. Their parents, armed with spears and axes lined the narrow passages, ready to defend their young. 

The king was at table, and threw down his ale at the sound of the alarm. Without a second thought he seized his axe and ran to the throne room, his guards flanking him as they awaited information and his queen was by his side with her mattock. Most of his council waited in the throne room and looked on in silence as the Elf was dragged in, and listened in ever deepening silence to the guard's stark report.

The king looked sternly on Legolas as he lay crumpled on the ground before the throne. This Elf was the first he had spent time with beyond a battlefield. He had not been as he expected. He did not have the fabled eloquence of the Elves, but next to Silvertongue, few would stand up to scrutiny. He did not see in this Elf the disdain, hatred and hostility he had been told were the building-blocks of Elves. This elf teased Gimli and had looked on him with undisguised affection. He had allowed himself to be humiliated, to be stripped of his weapons. Maybe the simmering resentment had become too much and he had snapped. Now he lay at his feet, covered in the blood of Gimli, Hero of the Fellowship.

Through the silence Thorin's voice boomed out. “For what cause did you attack Gimli, son of Gloin? Did he fight the enchantment? Are there more Elves preparing to attack?”

Again came the only words Legolas had spoken. “Does he yet live?” He pleaded, “take me to his side!”

Long and searchingly Thorin questioned Legolas but the Elf spoke only in their strange tongue. When he spoke Westron he would only ask how Gimli fared. The guards flanking him tried to hold him up, but he sank to the ground once again.

Thorin’s chief advisor sighed and shook his head with impatience. He stroked his beard and shared his thoughts with Thorin. “I knew that to allow an Elf to stay under the mountain would lead to tragedy. I will call the executioner and resolve the matter this very hour.”

Thorin stopped him with a gesture of his hand. He looked poised and in command, but his eyes betrayed his uneasiness.

Another of his advisers spoke, an old friend. “My king, before making a decision that would allow no return to the fragile peace we now have with the Elves, let us hear from Gimli and from the Elf himself. If Gimli wakes, he will speak the truth of what transpired. If he perishes, the Elf will meet his doom here.”

“Very well!” said the king. “Take the Elf away and keep him safe, until he feels inclined to tell the truth.”

The head guard took his own interpretation of 'safe' and soon Legolas had been bound in chains and shut in one of the innermost cells of the dungeons. They set beside him food and drink; water and a dry slice of bread. There in the king’s dungeon Legolas lay.

After the Elf was taken away his queen stood before Thorin and said, “I spoke to them at the feast on the first night. The love between Legolas and Gimli is great. He would not have slain Gimli.”

This was received with cold disapproval by some councillors.

“Can you not see what is before your very eyes? The Elf has done this. If we were him,” they said, “we would have looked for a dalliance somewhere else. And Gimli should not have allowed himself to get carried away. He has always been one to be led by his breeches and now see what has come to pass.”

They noted that Thorin became very quiet at these words, and they left him to his own thoughts, thinking that sooner or later he would come to a decision that agreed with theirs.

As the rumours of enchantment had spread, the mountain had quietly split into two camps. The one camp said: “If their friendship is true, let them be together. We all know Gimli; he is not one to not know his own mind.” The other camp said: “He has been enchanted. A Dwarf under enchantment can make no decision." Both groups seemed to agree with the statement "This Elf is the cause of great disturbance and must leave.” Even those who believed they shared the natural bond of sheild-brothers, preferred that the friendship continue outside the mountain. And even those who believed it was enchantment were hesitant to suggest execution, having seen in these months past the deadly fury of Elves in battle and how their desire for revenge could span the generations.

Thorin knew this crisis could be the catalyst for a leadership challenge. He had come from the Iron Hills and taken the throne after the death of his father Dáin Ironfoot. There were those who believed that of those who had survived the wyrm Smaug, one of the former Erebor Lords deserved to rule. There were many of the line of Durin; some of those claims were dubious as everyone liked to claim a tenuous link to Durin, nevertheless, many of the potential contenders had real support in the guilds.

There had been no direct challenge to his rule but the nature of this surprising dispute, that of enchantment of a Dwarf by an Elf, made the matter unpredictable. He had to tread carefully to avoid a rockslide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All reviews welcome, they really help inspire me to update.


	17. Chapter 17

Gloin was sitting before the fire with Mili when someone knocked on their door, as if to break it down. When he opened it, a young guard burst in. He looked very grim. He held in his hands, wrapped in cloth, Gimli’s battle axe. “The Elf has killed Gimli. His body is in the healers’ rooms.”


	18. Chapter 18

For many hours Dwarrow stood before the throne and debated.

  
Some hours after Legolas had been taken away, the scouts who had been sent out at the raising of the alarm returned bearing news. The body of an Orc had been discovered no more than two hour’s walk from the mountain. Its head all but severed and in its throat was lodged a throwing axe inscribed with the runes of the prince Fili.

In the months after his ascension to the throne, Thorin had asked that his Father’s whitebeards return to the Iron Hills. He would make his own decisions, his own mistakes, have his own rule. Some had remained despite his request, and ever saw him as the bookish young Dwarf he had been and did not respect his authority and even now they were pressing him to act.

All the while his queen was a steadying presence and she spoke gently in his ear. She repeated the counsel received earlier in the evening. “Take no hasty action until Gimli wakes and explains what happened, if you are not satisfied or if, if he wakes not, then further decisions can be made.”

There was no resolution that evening, and his council was still divided. Some did not like the situation at all. It was too out-of-the-way and shocking: it made them very uneasy. Theirs was not a tender and romantic world. There was no place in it for Elves. Elves were uneasy allies in times of war, and untrustworthy creatures at all others.

________________

Mili and Gloin had arrived to find their son under the care of healers. He still lived but his skin had a grey pallor, as if he were already returning to stone. All they could do was to wait. Low Khudzul songs of prayer came from Gloin. Mili remained silent. She would not beg Mahal. Gimli had already done enough for Mahal's people. If that was not enough, she reasoned begging would serve no purpose.

All that night, Gimli lay upon his bed in the chambers of healing, wandering in a desperate fever; dying someone said, and soon “dying” was what all Dwarrow were saying upon the streets. And by him Gloin and Mili sat and said nothing but watched.

They had not known hours so dark, not even in the months of waiting for news of how Gimli fared on his quest as one of the Nine. For then, they could not see before their very eyes Gimli’s struggle for every breath. It was their place to wait upon their son and so they did and sat forgotten it seemed, as the healers moved about him tending to their charge.

After a few hours he began to stir. From Gimli’s fevered lips, Mili began to piece together what had happened. She could only hope that the guards had not jostled Gimli to his detriment when they attempted to ‘rescue’ him from the clutches of an Elf. Gimli kept trying to get up and leave the bed and had had to be restrained. Throughout the night he would begin to wake and stir uneasily, fever raging and would be sedated. Gimli was given milk of the poppy when he groaned in pain. Sometimes his hands twitched as if he were trying to sign.

Mili saw tears on her husband’s face.

“Do not weep,” she said with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “He is stubborn. He will be well.”

“Comfort me not with talk of stubbornness!” said Gloin. “If I had only believed the truth of my own eyes and not been tempted with the hope of Dwarrowlings and not encouraged that dam they would not have ridden out together and Gimli would not have taken this hurt.”

Once again Mili gentled him. But she did not contradict him apart from to say, "they have dodged so many Orcs before now. They were just unlucky."

After a few hours Gloin spoke. “What will become of the Elf?”

“The Elf did him no harm.”

In the silence Gloin began to light his pipe then stopped. The healer would not permit the smoke from pipes in the room, so from force of habit, Gloin simply held it in his hands; Mili knew that look in his eye which told her he knew she was right. For a moment the conversation was curtailed while the healer tended to Gimli.

“Even so, he is not wanted under the mountain.”

  
When the healer had moved back to the other side of the room, he turned again to Mili. “I will not hide this from you, wife of my youth,” said Gloin, “that I am afraid for my son. But your judgement has never been wanting. I should have spoken to the king earlier and told him the stories of enchantment are confabulations.”

“Peace, my love. You would only have enflamed the situation.”


	19. Chapter 19

The confirmation that Oin, Balin and Ori had all been lost in Khazad-dûm had reached them in a letter sent by Gimli before his return to Erebor. In this shared pain Gloin, Dwalin, Nori and Dori had come together often after receiving the news. The bonds which had been forged in the Company had been renewed and strengthened. Now, together with Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, the morning after Gimli had been injured, they came to Gloin’s home to offer sympathy and support. Mili was still at Gimli’s bedside and Gloin had returned to wash and change his clothes when he found them gathered in his sitting room.

Nori must have picked the lock.

Bombur spoke. “I had heard the Elf took responsibility for the attack.”

In Inglishmek Bifur signed _that’s not true_. He could now no longer speak even Khudzul.

Dwalin shared the tidings he had heard; the arrow had been drawn from Gimli’s side. The healers had taken the thing to the king. With its twisted barbs and crude shaft, there was no doubt that it was an orcish thing. Fortunately, it had not shown any signs of poison.

“I’ve never heard of an Elf and Orc plotting together,” Bofur mused.

Gloin spoke. “Mili believes that the Elf would not harm him, and reluctantly I must say I am satisfied with that claim.” Some of the faces were incredulous. Some encouraged him to go on. “Not only because he is the Elf who helped free us from Thranduil’s dungeon, but because of what I have seen with my own eyes these past few days. The Elf loves him. We all know love when we see it.”

“Aye,” someone called out “This Thranduilion aided our escape from his own father’s dungeons.”

“Had he not done so we would not be in Erebor. We would not have reclaimed the mountain and still be wandering tinkers and blacksmiths and miners, not Lords of Erebor.”

“Indeed, if Gimli were well, he would answer all our questions.”

Dori spoke. The reclamation of Erebor had suited Dori and she had returned to a prim and proper way of speaking. “The Elf is held in the dungeons and already some have called for its execution. If Gimli can speak, the Elf’s part in this affair can be made known to the king and before the whole council. It is not my wont to be the defender of Elves, yet justice is wanting in this matter.”

Gloin answered, “there are many who would seek to hinder such ‘justice’.”

Nori had been getting more and more impatient and angry at the conversation and those last words seemed more than he could bear, and he stood up in the midst of them. “Mahal's hairy balls! This has gone on long enough. I know what it is to be held in prison. Not just in the Elvenking’s realm but elsewhere also. I am a thief. Only for love of Ori did I not sign up as the Company’s burglar. I wanted to show him I was more than just that.

But if this Elf is innocent, he cannot be kept down in those dungeons. He will not last. Even the cells of that misbegotten Elf king had light coming through. An Elf will just not survive down there.

And if Gimli loses his One while in such a weakened state, he will not survive either.

Perhaps I could ignore justice for the Elf if it were not for Gimli. Perhaps I would wash my hands of the whole thing, but I’ve known Gimli since he was a lad. I've known him since he tried to stuff himself into a sack and be tied to a pony as a sack of provisions in order to join the Company. I know he is a sound lad, and I know also that Mili is not one for flights of fancy. If she says the Elf is innocent, he is. If Gimli says the Elf is his One, he is.”

  
Gloin tuned to Dwalin. “The danger to them shall never be gone while the Elf remains here. Dwarrow could turn on him at any time. I ask that you bring me his weapons, make sure his horse is ready and escort him out when the time and opportunity arise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very welcome. Letting me know what you liked is encouraging.


	20. Chapter 20

When Legolas came to himself, he was lying on a rough stone bench and no one was near. He felt bruised and disarrayed. He could feel the weight of the heavy stone above him as he felt he was deeper under the mountain than he had ever been before. He was shaking and as chilled as a stone himself, but his heart burned with fear for Gimli.

For a while Legolas listened in the dark, then the gloom settled still more heavily upon him as the silence revealed itself to be empty. He lay back on the hard bench and tried to see in the dark, but it was like looking into a pool of ink. He closed his eyes once more.

He could not bring himself to think about what might be happening with Gimli. His funeral? Was he being returned to the stone? Would he be buried with his double-headed axe; had they let him retain the gift from the Lady? He allowed himself a tiny dose of hope. Surely he would know for certain if his husband, joined as they were in spirit, no longer drew breath on Arda. Did he still live?

He would have whispered Gimli’s Name to see if a shade responded, but he could not see well enough to determine whether or not he was alone, and he would not betray the trust that had been given him by not safeguarding the secret of the Name.

A tray of hard dwarf bread sat on a tray on the floor, presumably slid underneath by a guard and beside it lay a tumbler, the water spilled in a puddle around it. 

He fell once more into an uneasy sleep, simply to avoid being awake in the dark, pressed by the stone.

Legolas heard a sound then sat up groggily. Looking at the bars he could see movement.

“Hullo there!” he called with a shaky voice. “Hullo there! What news of Gimli?”

Silence answered him.

He called again. “Who is that who moves among the stones?”

After a while as his head cleared a little he saw a faint light and he thought he could see a heavyset dwarf standing by the bars. He rubbed his eyes. It was one of the whitebeards who had been sitting with them at the high table at the welcome feast and presumably he had been in the king’s chamber when Legolas had been taken in but his memories of that time were a blur. He only recognised him by the ostentatious gold robe he wore but did not remember his name.

“Gimli?” He croaked.

“He is in a poor state but still lives. He has not yet woken. You did not succeed in killing him.”

“Thank Aulë,” Legolas whispered.

“I suppose you’re happy that it’s not murder they will be charging you with but don’t get too comfortable. He could still die. And besides, for the enchantment, you will still end up being put to the axe.”

The news that Gimli yet lived emboldened him. When he asked how exactly he was supposed to have enchanted Gimli the whitebeard told him to hold his tongue and said, “Who can know the ways of the Elves? Gimli left the mountain, his home, with you, hale and hearty. Now he clings to life.”

“It’s my fault,” Legolas whispered miserably, “it is my fault.”

The whitebeard smiled grimly. “I just came down to see the Elvenking’s misbegotten son behind bars, and gawk at him the way he gawked at our people. I’ll be taking my leave. _Not_ at your service.”

Legolas was aching in his bones for more news of Gimli and the deep darkness pressed down on him. He longed for the feel of fresh air about him. He tried to sleep.

The midday meal had been taken to the prisoners. Legolas heard the guards tramping away down the passages taking the torchlight with them and leaving everything in blackness once more. Legolas sat in darkness, and utter silence fell about him. He ate nothing. He could not count the passing of time; he scarcely dared to move, for the whisper of his movement echoed and rustled in the cell. If he dozed, he woke to still darkness and to silence going on unbroken.

Legolas fell into reverie. He did not relive the stories or songs or bright days of yore. He had a sense that danger was ever present. In reverie he walked under the stars and thought of Gimli. Even within the woodland realm, there was none with whom he had such a profound connection as Gimli. Even in this matter of visiting the homeland of the other they were of one accord, though they had not been blind to the potential danger. Both had been raised with a profound sense of duty and service to their people. Their unhesitating offer of their arms to support the ringbearer had been simply a manifestation of this vein of duty which ran through them both. In the matter of their love, duty had its place also.

They could have avoided this situation. They could have stayed away from each other. They could have come together only furtively, secretly. True, with one look, other Elves knew the state of Legolas’ heart. But they would know only that he was wed, not that his bond was with a Dwarf.

They could have decided for the long term to pretend to be nothing to each other and present themselves as shield brothers at most. But this would be a disservice to their people apart from a disservice to their own hearts. The lies and misinformation needed to be challenged. Neither Gimli nor Legolas were such innocent rosebuds as to think that everything would change. But still it was important to plant that seed in their peoples, so that a frame of reference would exist for such friendships. Their people needed to see that a Dwarf and an Elf could walk side by side without hatred, both as individuals and as a people. They had agreed to hide the fact of their marriage, at King Thorin's request, but to display their friendship was a duty they could not shirk. But now Gimli may have already returned to his forefathers and he was a woodland Elf trapped under stone.


	21. Chapter 21

From the dark, Nori came forth bearing a lantern in his hand. It was darker than usual down in the dungeons and only a few petty thieves and drunken damagers of property were locked down here. Ancient walls and many-pillared balusters were illuminated by his swaying lantern-beam. His slow feet echoed until he came at last to the cell in which Legolas was held. He picked the lock and silently the door swung back.

Nori stared uneasily about him and dimly saw the Elf lying as if dead upon the bench. _Mahal's balls._

Legolas was wakened by the light, but when he heard the sound of his door unlocking he remained still. Perhaps if he took the guard unawares he could surge forward and make his escape. But he knew that would be futile. Even if he miraculously did manage to escape, unarmed, from a mountain full of Dwarrow, all spouting hammers and maces and axes, escape would make him an outlaw. How would he see Gimli again? Gimli had spoken to him of the laws of Erebor. As a fugitive outlaw any Dwarf he encountered would be given licence to kill him on sight. And Gimli had been candid and told him that for the longest time all Elves had looked the same to him. What then would be the fate of any blond-haired Elf who happened to cross the path of a Dwarf?

Legolas raised his head slowly and he saw a Dwarf with hair bound in three peaks, pacing to and fro. This was Nori, one of Gimli’s family friends. One who had been locked in dungeons such as this by his father. A thrill of fear ran through him. Was he here for revenge?

He mastered his emotions and in a low voice Legolas spoke. “What news of Gimli?”

“Still alive.” Came the gruff answer.

Nori looked around then slipped into the cell with Legolas. “Look, Gloin’s like a brother to me. I don’t like to see his lad tangled up in all this. We don’t want you killed.” He paused as if making a decision. “Yer free to go lad. I’ll help you.”

Legolas knew enough to see that this release had no official sanction. Legolas could hear the unspoken subtext. _Just fuck off back to the Elves_.

“I’ll be cut down before I turn the first corner.”

Nori spoke again in a confident voice. “I have paid off the guards and I can open the secret door to the mountain and end this trouble. I have Bombur in his litter and bearers you can trust waiting outside this prison. We would hide you in the chair under blankets. Yes, you would be crushed, but only for a short while. For sure, all would say you had enchanted your way out, but your neck would be safe. Elf, I don’t know what you want with Gloin’s boy. A joke is a joke, but it’s gone far enough.”

Legolas sat up on the rough bench. He did not have the strength to argue and try to prove their love was real. Mentioning their marriage to this Nori against the king's orders could even stir up more trouble, so instead he drew a slow breath and spoke. “If Gimli wakes, he will speak the truth of what transpired. If he perishes, I will meet my doom here. There is no benefit to my escaping.” Legolas’ eyes closed as he spoke. Furthermore, he could not encourage rumours of Elves having the power to compel guards to act against their own will and release their charges. To encourage a belief that Elves could wander around Erebor unseen, or perhaps cause witnesses to forget what they had seen.

He and Gimli could flee together. Perhaps even to the Easterlings and leave behind everyone and everything they knew. But they would also be leaving behind more rumours. Causing more divisions.

"I must remain to face justice."

At this Nori winced and was silent.

“In your father’s dungeons Ori told me you brought him parchment, quill and ink. He was the youngest and he was so scared. Then you helped us escape.” The words had the air of explanation.

As Nori walked away, in the corner of the cell Legolas saw the soft movement of glow worms.

It felt as if days had passed.

  
Nori returned.

The familiar voice in the dark spoke through the bars. “The offer still stands.”

“How fares Gimli?”

“Getting stronger.”

A long silence was his only response.

Then Legolas spoke. “Grant me if you would, this boon. Go and find Arod, our horse and see how he is housed. For he also helped save Gimli’s life.”

When he left the cell there was an apple on the ground.

Nori found that Arod had been well housed and tended. For in the days after Erebor had been reclaimed there had been built some fair stables to house a few horses, alongside the war goats, mules and ponies the Kingdom kept. The horse whinnied as Nori entered the stable and turned his head.

Nori reached up into the creature's mane. The horse was unnervingly large. “Gimli and Legolas send greetings; I am to see that all is well with you; and you are resting after your many valiant labours.“

Arod tossed his head and stamped, but he allowed Nori to tentatively touch his head and gently stroke his great flanks.

He looks as if he were spoiling for a race, Lord” said the attendant to Nori. “How strong and proud he is.”

“Where is his harness?” asked Nori.

The young groom replied, “The Elf told me he will have none. If he will consent to bear you, he does; if he will go with you, he will; and if not, well, no bit, bridle, whip or thong will tame him.”

As stubborn as the two he bears,” mused Nori.

Arod lifted his head and neighed, then Nori took his leave, seeing that the manger was well filled. He took a him a few morsels he had brought and Arod graciously accepted though the horse seemed to have no lack.

  
____________________

Time moved slowly and Legolas once again fell into deep sleep. When he woke Nori was in the cell with him again. He pressed Legolas to drink a sip of water and when he had recovered a little, he produced a piece of fruit and sliced it himself and made him eat it. By then, he was too worn out to offer much resistance, so Legolas ate, then stretched out and slept a little in uneasy fits; sweat grew chill on him and he shivered. Nori slipped out and once again Legolas was alone.

Even as hope had died in Legolas, or seemed to die, it was turned to a new strength. He grew stern, almost grim as the will hardened in him, and he felt through all his limbs a thrill as if he were turning into some creature of stone and steel that neither despair nor weariness nor the stone above could subdue.

The thought of being with Gimli again had a potency that sustained him. It fed the will and it gave strength to endure and to master his spirit. A decision was made once again to resist fading. He could not slip down that road, for it would part him from Gimli before their time. He turned his will away from it, yet still the valley stood before him, waiting in his mind. He began to dream. In his dream he forded a river at a wide shallow place full of the noise of foam and the sea nearby. He thought to walk into the sea and not return. Dark and inviting the waves looked, with starlight dancing on the surface.

With a start Legolas woke and cried out. “Ada!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hearing what you thought about the chapters = <3


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name ‘Therion means ‘to flourish’ in Sindarin.

Gudrun shivered in her kitchen, even though the fire was fully lit. Every Dwarf under the mountain was anticipating battle. Those who were fully trained were in barracks and in their Companies. Everyone else had been told to make ready. She had her full mail on though she had hoped the last time she put it away would have been the last for a long while. She was not very dwarvish in that.

She had collapsed in the workshop when she heard the news that the Elf had killed Gimli. Turg had taken her home, now they sat together. They made her another cup of tea, as if tea could help anything.

"It is my fault."

They did not contradict her.

She continued. "Is that tree-shagger now going to seek vengeance on me? My gift must have broken the enchantment and when Gimli tried to break away, the Elf wounded him." There were no tears. The matter was beyond tears. "I have heard they can communicate without speaking. He is going to summon his kin to kill us all."

"We could run, Gudrun, but that would make us traitors for abandoning the defence of Erebor when the alarm has been sounded. Besides, I'm sure an Elf can find whomever they wish to find. They are like shades, they can walk silently and they can glide over snow without leaving a track. They can pass through walls."

____________

Thranduil knew that some in Erebor believed the Dwarf Gimli to be under an enchantment.

All in the Greenwood knew there was no enchantment. Only the darkest and most powerful of sorcery could cause one to be bound against their will. And though they had many deficiencies, Dwarrow had a strength of will that could not be broken lightly. Also, all knew and rejoiced that all trace of dark sorcery had departed the forest with the destruction of the ring. But more than that, they knew their prince.

When he had returned to Eryn Lasgalen with a Dwarf in tow, the cause of distress had not been his companion but his eyes. All could see in the eyes of their beloved prince the Sea-Longing. The people's Silvan hearts were bound to the woods and thus they knew they would lose him as they themselves did not have the call to travel the Straight Road and sail West.

They also saw in his eyes his bond. It was undeniably a shock, to see one of the Firstborn thus joined to a Naug, but its effect was welcome. They knew this Dwarf would keep Legolas tethered to Middle-Earth for some years yet, thus they rejoiced in it.

Now this bond was threatened. A songbird had reached him bearing news. She heard from a raven of Erebor that Legolas’ husband had been seen gravely injured outside the gates of Erebor. A message had also reached him from Dale bearing a rumour that an Elf had killed a Dwarf in Erebor.

As he sat in contemplation a raven flew in and presumptuously perched on the headrest of his throne. In its harsh tones the bird spoke the message; that his son was being held captive for killing Gimli. The message also asked for restraint. He had asked the raven who sent the note, but the bird refused to answer, and ate a berry from his crown.

To attack Erebor would require a siege. Once the mountain was sealed, it became impenetrable. The peace and prosperity between the Dwarves and the Men of Dale would be shattered if the Elvenking forced a siege state upon Erebor. The execution of Legolas without trial would be something many would be pressing for, he knew, and as an untried King, this Stonehelm may have felt compelled to give in to the pressure.

Thranduil had retired to his private quarters and only emerged a good while later and looked uncharacteristically flushed.

Thranduil spoke with his heir, Therion. “It is over late to send for aid when calamity has befallen. I do not know the counsel of the king and I know not this king, so recently crowned. Some say he sits alone in his chamber and bends his thought this way and that. That he is wise, as much as any Dwarf can be wise, despite his youth. However that may be, my son stands in peril. The tidings which came out of Dale were evil indeed, yet I know not the truth of them.”

“And yet,” he paused and stood up and looked round in the direction of the mountain, “the doings of the past should warn us that whatever pride may say, hasty action often yields bitter fruit. This peace between the realms of Elves and the mountain is not a new thing, yet today it shall be put to the test. This is a strife, long drawn-out and we are but one piece in it but how we treat this day can still cause the peace to stand or fall.”

“A great host of us must draw close to the mountain.”

And this they did.

  
It was a weary journey from Eryn Lasgalen, and a sombre one. They took less than half a day to assemble then they marched through the night and took no rest; and there was no laughter or song and the massed company of Elves in shining armour all knew that as they approached the mountain and drew near to the end of their journey that it might have a tragic end. Within a full day of receiving the news the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen stood massed outside Erebor.

Again, Thranduil turned to Therion, his heir. “The Enemy had hatred as his coin. Shall we deal in the same? Hatred from the depths of time? Here will the hammer-stroke fall hardest; the Elves diminish. Those who linger retain not the might of ages past. We know the Dwarves only through rumour, fables and tales of bitterness, but they also know us not. These two have made a start and it should not be thwarted at such an early pass.”

“My little leaf would not slay his beloved. This I know. The light of truth must shine upon this matter.”

Therion did not answer immediately. Then, when he spoke, he said, “our reach is shortened, and we cannot strike till the strike first comes against us, then our hand must be heavy!” Legolas’ brother stood tall and proud and noble, as were all the descendants of Oropher.

For a time, they stood together with bowed heads and did not speak. At the foot of the mountain the great host was drawn up, in ranks and companies glittering in the setting sun. For many hours they stood in silence. So, they waited. The sun set and dawned again and still they waited.

Thranduil stood before his banner, silent and stern, as one lost in thought of things long past or far away; but his eyes gleamed like stars that shine the brighter as the night deepens.

As the sun climbed in the sky, Galion looked at the great mountain, at the fluttering banners and he thought of the days of the long fingers of the Shadow. He shuddered and hope seemed to wither. And even at that moment the cloud was obscured, as though the Shadow had returned. Almost beyond hearing he thought he caught an Elvish cry from within: faint, but heart-quelling. He blanched.

“What was that?” asked Therion. “You also heard something?”

“Yes,” Thranduil muttered. “It is my son. The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away.”

  
Alone, Thranduil approached the gates.

Galion looked up and saw Thranduil, striding towards the gates of Erebor. Behind him stood proudly a dusty line of Elves; grim-faced were they. Dust hung in the air, for the wind had died and the morning was heavy.

"I am no warrior," thought Galion, "and I dislike any thought of battle; but waiting on the edge of one that I cannot escape seems worst of all. What a long day it seems already! Shall I lose my king and prince in one fell swoop? I should be happier if I were not obliged to stand and watch, making no move, striking nowhere first."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you guys think of Gudrun?


	23. Chapter 23

Gimli saw a bright light.

He smelled the healing herbs and he wondered if he was awake or still in the swift-moving dream in which he had been wrapped. The world had been rushing by with the wind singing loudly in his ears. He could remember nothing but a spreading stain of red on Arod’s flanks. Had the horse been injured?

With effort, he had tried to recall which battle he was dreaming of, but his memory was drowsy and uncertain. There had been a ride at terrible speed without a halt. Legolas had spoken soft words to him but in a strange tongue. He had only recognised ‘Melleth’, ‘Mellon’, ‘Gimli-nin’. Then he had remembered being on the ground by the gates of Erebor. And chaos had passed over him and he could see fear in the eyes of the guards.

Sleepily he tried to reckon whether he was thinking of the battle of Helm’s Deep, but the injury there had been to his own head, not to their horse. Gimli decided to close his eyes for just a moment more and rest, that this weary feeling may pass. He reached for Legolas’ hand, but he was not there.

Dimly, he became aware of comings and goings. He was tired and uneasy. He heard his mother’s voice. Someone was giving orders. There was incense being burned around his bed and he felt runes being drawn on his body and sank back into the comfortable warmth and stillness.

Gimli woke to the sound of voices. He tried to sit up and found his hands had been bound to the side of the bed upon which he lay. He had no way of telling what time of day it was. Smells of incense and herbs surrounded him. His brow felt damp with sweat. Many healers stood around him with grave looks upon their faces. The whispered discussion could be heard but his ears could not make sense of the words. His mother was speaking to the healers and as he listened, Gimli became aware that he himself was being discussed.

This time a healer stood by his side.

“Sleep again and do not be afraid!” said the Dwarf to him in a business-like voice. “For soon the enchantment will be lifted and the fever will pass. Then you will be safe again among your kin! You will be free of the Elf.”

“You do not comfort me,” said Gimli, but nonetheless sleep crept over him.

The last thing he remembered before he fell into a deep dream was a glimpse of Legolas’ hands bound. He wondered where he was. He knew that if he were able, Legolas would have been with him. Had he been killed in battle? He could hold onto those thoughts no longer and sleep overtook him.

Gimli became aware of a dipper being put to his lips. By reflex he swallowed the thin trickle of liquid and he became drowsy again. He could hold onto the thought that Legolas was in danger, and needed him, but he could not stir and felt himself falling into a deep hole of unconsciousness.

When he eventually climbed back up to awareness he tried to speak. “Legolas, ghivashel,” he croaked. His throat was dry, as if his voice had been unused for days.

“The charms have not worked. He still lies under the enchantment.”

“Perhaps he is trying to say what happened.”

“It matters not. When the Elf has been executed, he will return to his right mind.”

With that Gimli attempted to sit up, but instead jerked at his restraints and lurched to the side and almost overturned the low hospital cot.

A strong hand gripped his shoulders. A hand he had known all his life. Gimli cowered back, afraid for a moment, wondering how his mother had come to the battlefield. She was speaking gentle words to him and allowed him a few sips of water from a dipper. He opened his eyes and then saw he was not in the camp hospital of a battlefield of a war now long ended. He could not remember how he had come to be here. He stirred and spoke.

“Where are we, Amad?” He shuddered violently and his fingers tightened on the sheets below him. He tried to speak again but could not form words.

“In the healers’ caverns,” his mother answered. “You are being treated for a wound.”

Gimli found his strength and cried out suddenly, clutching at the sheets. “Legolas, where is he, is he safe? An Orc attacked us! I know not if there were more!” Consciousness was slipping away from him like water cupped in a hand. He felt himself sinking back into foggy sleep.

He heard his mother’s voice clearly. “Gimli, you must awaken, and you must be brave. Take no more milk of the poppy for time is short. See! They have bound your Elf and he is in need of your aid. War is at our doorstep.”

“It may be too late,” said the healer. “For the Elves mass at the gates.” He bustled officiously and produced a roll of parchment. "He is not yet fit to leave my care. You will need to sign your mark here-“

Mili swept the paperwork onto the floor and barged past the healer. “Let us pass on now, quickly! For the King Under the Mountain will be eager to hear the full truth of the matter.”

She turned again to Gimli and spoke. “The healers have restrained you because you kept trying to get up, and we feared you would do yourself further injury. Will you follow our instructions if we untie you?”

He nodded, then shivered at the memory of Legolas on the ground beside him. The image was filled with menace. And with that hideous memory he woke fully.

“Legolas.” he rasped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, anything you wish to say about the story is warmly received.


	24. Chapter 24

The Orcrist, the Elvish sword which had been laid on the tomb of Thorin Oakenshield was said to gleam in the dark if orcs approached. It was the lot of the young apprentices of various guilds, by turns, to stand watch at the tomb for signs that it glowed. No alarm had been raised by them.

Was it that it would never glow for an Elf; that the sword would never recognise an Elf as an ‘enemy’ regardless of whether they approached in friendship or malice, or was the warning it gave only at close quarters and thus useless under the mountain? Had the apprentice shirked his duty and spent his appointed evening, gambling coin at the ferret races instead of standing watch? Some questions would never be answered.

The fact remained that without warning, Thorin now found an Elvish host massed just beyond his gates. They had not come close and had waited. He was not sure of what to do. Surely, they were here because of the Elf, but how could they know of the situation? Some more of the enchantment that was the root of this misery? Erebor could last under a siege for a substantial time. Stores would run low and belts would need extra notches cut, but they would survive. In any case, Thorin hesitated to fling arrows down upon these Elves. They were ostensibly still allied forces.

After a full day of waiting, early in the morning the Elvenking advanced and stood, alone, right before the wall at the Gate. Thorin was alerted and made his way to the balcony and from there hailed him in a loud voice: “Who are you that come armed for war to the gates of Thorin Stonehelm, son of Dain, King Under the Mountain?”

Thranduil spoke in low, measured tones which seemed to be caught on the wind and brought to each listening ear.

“Hail Thorin! Why do you fence yourself like a robber in his hold when we are not your foes? We rejoice that our peoples are united in friendship and hope. Yet now we are met there is a matter for a parley, for you hold a treasure of mine within.”

“Who are you, and of what would you parley?”

“You know me well. I am Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of Eryn Lasgalen, the Greenwood once known as Mirkwood. You know me for we fought side by side in the battles in which your honourable father came to the throne and another in which he was slain. We aided you in your distress and in recompense you have now brought us to the brink of war, though doubtless not of your design.

“If you do not know me, surely you know my son, who entered your halls as a guest and is now held against his will. Is that not a matter of which we may speak?”

Now these were fair words and true, if proudly and grimly spoken. Dwarrow lined the rampart and the Raven tower. Many in the mountain heard the words and Thorin was sure that those who heard would at once admit what justice was in them.

He did not reckon with the power fear has upon a people and the power of rumour and misinformation. The fear of enchantment was heavy on them together with old memories of the sorrows of their people.

One of Thorin’s advisors answered without leave. He smoothed his gold cloak as he drew breath to bellow. “You put your worst cause last and in the chief place, to your ‘treasure’ you have no claim, for Thranduilion lies under the judgement of this kingdom. His evil deeds shall be paid for. No parley shall be had under threat of force. While an armed host lies before our doors, we look on you as foes and thieves.”

Thorin attempted to regain control of the situation. “You have indeed succoured our people in our need, but I will not parley, as has been said, with armed men at my gate. Begone now ere our arrows fly! And if you would speak with me again, first dismiss the Elvish host to the woods where it belongs then return, laying down your arms before you approach the threshold.”

Thranduil answered, his voice still measured and serene. “It is in my mind to teach you more courteous speech. If Thorin would have the friendship and honour of the lands about I would bid him consider well his words or be declared our foe, but I will come in unarmed to discuss the matter. My people shall remain without.” With that, Thranduil lay down his sword upon the ground.

The council who stood about Thorin on the balcony heard these words and grew afraid, wondering what would happen. “Do not let him in” they hissed.

Thorin ignored him and signalled for the gate to be opened. What kind of a king would he be remembered as if he could not keep his word. He had sworn an alliance with the woodland king and it would serve justice to allow him entry. Alone, he could not enchant every dwarf under the mountain in any case.

Seeing that the king would be soon entering the mountain, Dwarrow began to make their way down to the throne room.

“The Elvenking approaches!” cried the whitebeard who had been getting impatient at the long wait, then at the discussion. To the king he had advised a show of strength. Perhaps fling a few boulders at the waiting army. He muttered in the direction of the approaching Elvenking. “Make haste and let us have no more words, or I may have something to say to you.” He spoke with a glitter in his eye at the thought of battle to come but was careful to speak quietly enough that the Elf would not actually hear him from this distance.

Thorin would not let that insubordination stand. The king gestured to his guards. “Our esteemed councillor is tired. Escort him to his chambers.” His gold cloak seemed to bristle with indignation as he swept past.

“Let us make ready then let the Elvenking in.”

After a period of waiting, during which Thranduil feared he would be denied admittance, the innermost gates of Erebor were opened. With six of Stonehelm’s guard flanking him, the Elvenking was led through the mountain to the throne.

The dwarves of Erebor felt their hearts stir in fear. They saw the Elvenking, stride majestically through the mountain. Though he was flanked by guards, the Elf was relaxed and made it appear as if the guards were there merely to attend to his comfort.

There had already been much talk under the mountain about the Elves at the gates; The news that the Elvenking was now within had spread from the gates of the mountain to the doors of the throne room and throughout Erebor like a fire. Dwarrow were shouting inside the hall and outside it. All the levels were packed with Dwarrow who wished to see for themselves. The pathways were thronged with hurrying feet. Such excitement had not been known in the mountain since the end of the war and the Wood-Elves who waited beyond the gates began to wonder greatly at the sound of the commotion and even to be afraid.

There was a wide circle of quiet surrounding Thranduil as he passed which was then often filled with murmurs of “Smooth faced cur!”, “Thranduil, curse his name!” and other insults. A crowd was already gathered outside the audience chamber.

When he found himself alone, after the news of Legolas’ imprisonment had been received, Eryn Lasgalen had not seen Thranduil rage in that manner for an age. His rage passed description – the sort of rage that is only seen when a beloved prince of the realm is threatened by an enemy of long-standing. Thranduil could see himself suddenly about to lose Legolas. He had prepared himself for loss to the Sea when Legolas had written, and even loss to the Dwarf when Legolas had written again but this was of an order of magnitude he had never imagined to calculate.

As he entered the throne room of Thorin Stonehelm, he kept this rage in check as he stood before the throne.

In a voice with all the chill of a winter wind he spoke. “I am Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of Eryn Lasgalen, the Woodland Realm! You hold Thranduillion against his will.”


	25. Chapter 25

Gimli was galvanized by the thought of Legolas in danger, here in Erebor. Gimli’s mind was not as sharp as it normally was, but he felt a fire burning within him. They had both known it could be dangerous for Legolas to visit Erebor, as an Elf alone. They had both known the risk and had borne it. Indeed, Gimli had been a Dwarf alone in Eryn Lasgalen. After the primal terror Fanghorn had instilled in him, he had felt prepared to deal with Mirkwood as described by the Company. Instead, he had found Eryn Lasgalen, both the trees and the Elves, tolerant of him, if not exactly welcoming. Both had seemed to exude an air of bemused curiosity at a Dwarf in their midst. No longer under shadow, everything in the woods was stirring again, not in menace but almost in playfulness.

The night before entering the forest he and Legolas had set up camp on its borders. Though Legolas had wept in relief at the changed atmosphere of his homeland, he could not guarantee all the spiders were dead, so would not risk setting-up camp under the canopy of trees. They had laid their sleeping rolls beside each other and simply embraced one another. Gimli shared in Legolas’ joy while trying to master his own fear and they fell asleep entwined.

Gimli had been afraid the Elves would kill him, or at least imprison him for daring to presume to be joined to such an ethereal creature as Legolas, their own Prince. No one had called him ‘a Naug’ to his face, and there had been no violence or open hostility, however Legolas had not left his side. On occasion, by silent agreement, Legolas’ brother seemed to have been assigned as a guard, but overall, he had been fêted together with Legolas as one of the Nine Walkers. He had seen Legolas’ favourite trees, favourite haunts, and even slept in a tree once. Legolas’ limbs had wrapped around him as he was nested in the hollow between thick branches, wedging him in. Until he fell asleep, Legolas’ fingers had been playing with his hair and beard, singing songs in rolling Silvan and planting little kisses on his head, his shoulders, his neck. Gimli had still been relieved to ride away from Eryn Lasgalen, but he had not been harmed there. Now in Erebor, Gimli’s husband’s life hung in the balance.

Gimli knew that a part of him felt ashamed that Legolas had not received a fabled dwarven welcome; oh, there had been a feast of welcome, but it was clear it was a welcome for Gimli. Legolas had been barely tolerated and the veiled hostility that evening had been a welcome change from the open hostility he faced at other times. Another part of him felt guilty for the orc attack. He knew that Legolas had been upset when they had ridden out. Gimli should have kept watch, remained alert, not just thinking of his trews and getting them off under the open sky, which always increased Legolas’ enthusiasm and volume, which in turn inflamed him.

Now his husband’s life hung in the balance. A roiling terror was building up within Gimli and he could barely keep it under control. In the hospital, his mother had brushed and braided his hair and beard. She had not done so for many years and to feel anyone other than Legolas’ hands grooming him was strange. Gimli had not wanted to waste time, but his mother had pointed out that if he came to the king looking unkempt and dishevelled it would devalue the words he spoke.

They now made their way to the audience chamber.

“Let me pass! I must come to the King Under the Mountain. Whatever betide, let me pass!”

Dwarves fell back before the command in his voice and made no further attempt to question him, though they gazed in wonder at Gimli as he was carried in a litter, supported by healers, up the long paved pathways and winding roads towards the throne room, his mother beside him.

Already it seemed that word of their coming had gone before them: and at once they were admitted, silently, without question, but the litter had to be left outside the chamber. And then, Gimli found himself half-carried through the doors of the great hall and past the silent door wardens.

At the far end, upon a dais of many steps was set a high throne; behind it were carved walls, set with gems. But Gimli spared not a second glance for the throne. At the foot of the dais, before the lowest step was Legolas. He was in chains, his bloodstained tunic had been replaced with a clean, if rude garment. The arms of the tunic were too short and it was baggy. The neck gaped and the skin which was revealed appeared to be a light grey.

At the sight of Gimli, Legolas surged forward to go to him but was held back in chains. Gimli recognised the cursing and swearing in Sindarin to be released. Nori seemed to materialise by his side, and he spoke softly to Legolas. “Be careful of your words to the King, Elf! This is no time for your temper to rise.”

But it was not anger that had given him strength. At the sight of Gimli yet living he laughed for joy. He felt life returning to him. A sweet fountain bubbled up in his breast. As their eyes locked, Legolas glowed as if standing under the morning sun and as if he stood in a bright green meadow and not in the midst of stone.

“Up with your beard, Durin’s son!” Legolas said. “For thus is it spoken: Oft hope is born, when all is forlorn.”

Legolas then turned his head and was surprised and not a little frightened to see the Elvenking entering the halls. There was no knowing what an Elf would not do for the revenge or recovery of his own.

The light torchlight over Thranduil’s face made his expression difficult to read but Legolas knew every inch of his face as if it were his own; Thranduil was in equal measure furious and terrified.

Quickly, Thranduil strode across to room to where Legolas now stood, still bound in chains, and stroked his head in a half-unconscious protective gesture, hoping that the intimacy of the action would escape the notice of the assembly.

Their eyes communicated silently. “Peace, father. All will be well,” Legolas reassured him without words.

Gimli had been placed behind Legolas and could not catch his eye, but strength was returning to his limbs

The king spoke from his throne and addressed all assembled, while facing Thranduil. He summarised the report the guard gates had delivered and then how Legolas had failed to speak at all in his own defence.

Thorin concluded his address to the Elvenking with a question. “Is it true that your son has enchanted Gimli, son of Gloin? Know you aught of this?”

Though the air was still, a susurration seemed to fill the silence around Thranduil. “If there is any enchantment, it has been cast upon my son, that he allows himself to be held captive.” The icy, measured tones hinted at the anger boiling just below the surface. He did not shout but his words were heard clearly by all.

Gimli did not rise to the bait but instead spoke clearly and loudly, that all in the chamber might hear. “Hail, King under the Mountain. You know me well; I am Gimli son of Gloin! I am come with words of truth in this dark hour.”

Thorin looked at him impassively. Gimli regarded his face and was reminded of Aragorn for that still, measuring quality.

“Dark indeed is the hour,” said his king, “all the signs bear witness that war is coming to us again. War with Elves who so recently have been our Allies.”

At this Thranduil inclined his head in the slightest of movements. His face still seemed still and impassive, but to those who knew him, he was practically rolling up his sleeves and finding a chair to use in a bar room brawl.

Thorin continued. “It has been told to me that the one you brought with you has done you harm?” and waited for him to speak.

Gimli grit his teeth and sweat poured down his brow at the effort of remaining upright. He channelled all his strength to his voice and spoke out clearly, for the assembly to hear. “It is not so,” said Gimli. “He has ever done me only good.”

“Thus may one speak, who is under an enchantment,” said Thorin grimly. Thorin himself was very sceptical when it came to the accusations of enchantment. But he spoke on behalf of his people, and this was the concern at the forefront of the mind of the ordinary Dwarrow. Thorin continued, “little love do I bear Elvenkind, yet they came to our aid in these months past and I will hear your words.”

Gimli was dressed, in a simple robe of the healing houses together with his own trews. He was barefoot. Two attendants had borne his weight as he passed through the streets, guards parting the crowds. 

As he spoke to the king, struggling to stand, his mother had glanced at the guards and then one came bearing a low stool. Presently, the thudding of the chief healer’s boots paused in her stride, then stilled as she helped to lower Gimli to a fully seated position. His legs would not obey, would not brace him, and he could feel the weakness in his body; she, together with another healer swept up towards him, their white robes fluttering around him like steam around a fresh forged blade. They supported him, one holding under each arm and helped him stay upright. And thus, Gimli found himself seated before his king, attendants keeping him from toppling.

The words he had heard murmured by his bedside came back to into his mind; ‘Enchantment’.

Gimli’s mother stood behind him and in her rich, mellow voice spoke as if to every individual Dwarf within the chamber and also to those on the balconies and straining to hear. “Yea truly, it is his right to speak for Legolas,” said Mili. “He has this right!”

According to the law, when a dispute was brought before the king certain people had an absolute right to be heard: the king; the accuser; the accused; the accused's One. 

Gimli's mother had said that Gimli had the right to speak _for_ Legolas. Surely she meant _against_ him. To have a son thus wounded and then to have to speak in public must be confusing and disorienting for her. In the air hung the thought; it is the right of an accused to have his One speak in his defence. But if it were acknowledged, that he was Legolas’ One, without enchantment, there would be nothing to speak of. He must be willing to speak then as an accuser! To speak out against the enchantment! Or maybe the Elf had enchanted Gimli's parents also?

The buzz of excitement grew in the hall as those who wanted to speak out in excitement were shushed by their companions who wanted to hear what was said next. Thorin's advisers were all but drowned out. 

“His wound is a grave one and we do not know his state of mind,” called one of the councillors.

Another spoke. “We allowed one Elf to visit these halls, one. But now a mighty host now stands without.”

“Even if he is free of enchantment and speaks truly now, would he not simply fall under the spell of the stranger yet again?” a third voice added?


	26. Chapter 26

Legolas held himself still as he watched Gimli prepare to speak. It took all his strength not to surge forward and gather Gimli up in his arms. He used all his courage to hold himself as one of the line of Oropher and not crumble in his father’s arms. He shifted his weight between his feet and ignored the guards roughly pulling the chains manacled to his wrists. The chains were, in fact, designed for thick, sturdy Dwarrow wrists. There were no smaller sizes as a dwarf child would never be shackled thus. If he so desired, he could yank hard against them and slip free, but dwarven justice must be seen to be done.

There was enough light in this great hall for him to see Gimli clearly, skylights having been cut through the mountain with mirrors angled to bounce the light around. Gimli’s proud face was focused, as if for battle. His marriage braid was not in his hair today. Even hidden beneath his warrior’s braids as it usually was, he could normally spot it, but Legolas did not take it as an evil sign, that Gimli wavered in his steadfastness. He trusted there was a reason for this, and held steady.

Legolas wished Galadriel could be here to mediate. Oh, how he had burned with envy after Lothlorien. He was not supposed to be this drawn to one of the Stunted Ones, he had told himself then. Gimli’s worshipful devotion towards the Lady of Lothlorien irked him and even after they were wed, sometimes Legolas would growl under his breath as Gimli rhapsodised about the gift he had been given and of how he would set it in crystal.

But Galadriel, in Gimli, had managed to cut through a lifetime’s conditioning against Elvenkind. After settling in Erebor, almost daily had Thranduil’s name been abused in Gimli’s home by Gloin, yet still, Gimli had managed to open his heart to Thranduilion. She was skilled in diplomacy and even spoke Khudzul and could recount to the Dwarrow tales of the glory of Khazâd dum and of, if not harmony, tolerance between Elf and Dwarf. But she would not reach Erebor in time to mediate. And she was known as a witch and an enchantress in these lands, so would hardly set the mountain at ease. In fact she would strengthen the argument that Elves had the power to bewitch others. Without the power of the ring Nunya, he did not know if she could still share in the thoughts of others, but if so, that would not be a welcome form of communication here. Furthermore, if she tried speaking Khudzul before this gathering, those who believed it was a taboo for a stranger to understand a few signs of Inglishmek let alone to hear Khudzul spoken would surely tear their beards out in fury at what they would see as provocation.

Gimli began to speak. His eyes raised to the throne and his chin jutted up in defiance.

“I will vouch for Legolas before the throne of Stonehelm himself,” said Gimli, his voice sharp and with a trace of bitterness. “And as for enchantment, you know not of what you speak. We have passed through more battles and perils together than most here have known; freely he came with me into this place to bear tidings of our friendship in the hope that accord between our peoples could grow. A great weariness is upon me and I struggle to wake, but I would speak.”

Legolas saw Gimli brace himself as he fought the fatigue and gathered himself up to continue.

“Legolas. He is my dearest friend.”

“Friend?” called one Dwarf dubiously; and the others grumbled.

Traitorously, Gimli's mind jumped to an image of him, salty and slick, the feel of him in his mouth, as he used all the skill of his tongue and lips on Legolas.

“Aye! Friend! First and foremost!” cried Gimli, now thoroughly roused in defiance. “Friend! Indeed, it is so. As to how I came to be wounded. We were riding in what was once the Desolation of Smaug. The Elf wanted to see the growing things and a lone Orc came upon us, having hidden among the trees. Legolas used my axe to slay it, but it had already done me harm.”

The Dwarrow in the room looked at each other uneasily.

“An Orc, you say?” queried one of them. “The Elf was not the one who attacked you? Or yet one of his kindred?”

“Did he not attack you as you tried to flee his enchantments?”

Gimli spoke again, his voice filled with weariness, both of mind and of spirit. “It is true that he holds my heart but not in the way you fear. We were waylaid by an Orc as we rode outside of Erebor and now you have imprisoned without cause the Prince of Eryn Lasgalen who acted only to save my life, for had he not acted, I would have perished.”

The roar of Dwarrow in agitation is one many do not live to see twice. After several minutes it was quiet enough for a councillor to put forward another query.

“It was your throwing axe, the axe given to you by the departed Crown Prince Fili, found on the body of the foul creature. You are claiming the Elf saved you. Are you saying he used your weapon?”

“For close to a year I have given him leave to handle my unsheathed weapon. And even if I had not, to save a life, by our laws it is permitted.”

A murmur of astonishment ran through the assembly. Some still cried out aloud: “An Elf? Indeed, he is bewitched!” But Gimli’s face was unmoved.

“He saved me,” answered Gimli, his voice rough with emotion. “But that is not an unusual thing. As I stood by Balin’s tomb, by the bones of Ori, unburried, I would have torn out my beard and crumbled in despair.” He looked at Nori. No one was quite sure what exactly Nori did for King Thorin III, but it was hardly the lacemaking Dori was known for. He was toughened and hard as foundation rock, but the tears flowed freely down Nori’s face.

“Yet it was not the time for mourning as we were hemmed about by foes. The Elf roused me from my grief and saved me. For less than this, life debts are owed, with no enchantments spoken of. Again, that very hour, as Durin’s bane set upon Tharkûn, prince Legolas saved me from falling into the depths of what others call Moria. The Black Pit. Countless times in battle has he saved me. Countless times has his friendship saved me. And I have done the same for him. Of this we do not keep count.”

“Peace!” cried one. “Surely you mean one of the Men, King Elessar perhaps, or even a halfling, not-!” Gimli interrupted the murmurs. “Aye, an Elf,” repeated Gimli. “The very one who travelled with me all these long months across the world,” he confirmed seeing the wonder in their faces. “This very one, a guest of Erebor, whom you have in chains.”

“As I beheld Durin’s bane, I nearly wet myself in fear. I froze in terror.” His face was hot with embarrassment and he felt stripped down and naked before everyone he knew. Yet he continued, helpless, and daring only to tell the truth. “Legolas trembled also, but still, he urged me on when I would have collapsed into a pile of gravel, the will to continue having left me.”

“I say it again!" Gimli now roared, "many times, did he come close to being slain defending me from many foes. This last occasion was simply one occasion of many. And I have done the same for him.”

This was not what Legolas had imagined Gimli would say, and in this situation, he should not have had this heat pooling down below, but of late, his need was no longer listening to ‘should'. Legolas continued to hold silent.

“This rescue,” he gestured to his wounded side, “required the speed of an Elf. Had he required the endurance of a Dwarf it would have been I offering him succour.”

Thorin allowed the long silence to continue, then broke it. “I have received this from the chambers of healing," said the king. In his hand he lifted from his lap the thing he had been gazing at. A bloodied arrow: The wood was roughly hewn and splintered. The tip was crude, and its shaft was barbed. “This is an Orcish thing.”

“The arrow pulled from my side.”

“Verily,” said the king.

Legolas did not know how long he would have with Gimli. Little was known about resisting the call of the sea, for few, if any resisted that call to a haven of peace and tranquillity. Mayhap, he would fade or madden in the resistance. Though he had not ventured beyond the Greenwood often, throughout the years news would filter through to them, in the same way as the rarefied sunlight filtered through their branches. He had heard tales of mannish settlements ravaged by disease, leaving not a one standing. He knew all too well that the swing of a blade could separate either of them from life, and they had not even wanted to think about what fate awaited them after death. It was another conversation wrapped and packed away for ‘later’. Legolas would not allow his tongue to remain still any longer when words and beliefs were working to separate him from his husband.

Legolas spoke up. He had never been comfortable with making a spectacle of himself and now, in ill fitting clothes, dirty and uncombed he felt all eyes on him.

“Mayhap it be of little service, but I will do what I can to prove I have cast no enchantment and Gimli stays by my side of his own free will.”

Legolas turned to Thranduil. Throughout the speaking and commotion, he had remained as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on Legolas. He looked towards his father with look of fond tenderness, then turned back to the king.

“If it would prove the sincerity of my love for Gimli, son of Gloin, I would renounce all claim to the title ‘prince’ of Eryn Lasgalen, much as I love my father and my people, and bind myself in service to Erebor.”

A second commotion rang through the halls and the vibration was felt through the very floors.

Stonehelm waited for the noise to subside but still hesitated as he looked from one to the other. The Elvenking was very powerful and he did not wish to rekindle the enmity between them, but the sight of his son in chains may have put them beyond hope of recovery of civil relations.

Legolas called out again. “Here do I swear fealty and service to Erebor, and to the King Under the Mountain. I do this for the love of Gimli, son of Gloin. I vow to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or war, in living and dying from this hour henceforth, until my lord king Thorin release me, or death take me, or the world end. So, say I, Legolas, son of Thranduil, of the Woodland Realm.”

Thorin stood. The colour was high in his cheeks and Legolas could see his hand trembled, then he pressed it firmly against his side. Thorin looked Legolas in the eye with a regard full of gratitude, then spoke to the crowd. “The oath of an Elf bears no weight here and I would not bind the son of another monarch, an ally, to me in such a way, but your words do you credit.”

Later, in the retelling in alehouses, the tale would be spun that ‘he knew he would not be bound by an oath. Elves are faithless creatures. Apparently even in marriage they will not take vows, they just bed whomsoever they please.' ‘Nay, the bedding is the wedding!’ ‘Then they must all be married to each other…!’

__________________

Thranduil had held himself still throughout the exchange. By a sense other than sight Gimli perceived that Thranduil had the greater power and a majesty that was veiled. And he was older, far older. How much older, he wondered. In what far time and place did he come into the world? And then his musings broke off and he saw that Thranduil and Thorin still looked each other in the eye, as if reading the other’s mind. But it was the King under the Mountain who first withdrew his gaze.

Now they would say Thorin was bespelled.

“Yea,” said Thorin, “Gimli, son of Gloin has keener sight than many.”

Gimli could not take his eyes from Legolas. Was it so, or had he only imagined it, that as he had spoken Legolas had grown more and more fair? He gazed upon him as if it were just the two of them in this mountain, pressed close against each other, secure in the other’s embrace. He knew it was not right, not in this place, to feel his hammer stir hot and heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for your comments and <3


	27. Chapter 27

Gimli had already finished speaking when Gloin thundered into the throne room. He had pushed past the crowds, shoving indignant Dwarrow to the ground then planted himself squarely behind Gimli. Gloin's hands were on his hips and he had a look on his face which spoke clearly that if anyone looked at him the wrong way or interrupted Gimli, they would be facing the business end of his axe. There was some murmuring and the sight of Gloin, bristling with true wrath was one most were not familiar with.

“See here!” he cried. "If you think the Elf has killed him and enchanted him then you’ve all got no sense! It’s a pity some folk are willing to take and enjoy the freedom won for them, in part, by an Elf who was willing to lay down his life fighting, then separate him from his One!” His huge chest heaved like bellows as he breathed hard and continued to glare at the assembled Dwarrow of Erebor. His eyes held Gimli’s then Legolas’ with guilt and apology shining out. He did not look at the Elvenking.

Mili gave him a brisk nod.

Tears prickled in Gimli’s eyes and he gently squeezed his father’s hand as it rested on his shoulder. _I love you_ Gloin’s hand signed, then squeezed his shoulder again, more briskly, as if in embarrassment.

“Patience!” said Thorin, but without anger. “Do not speak so before your king. I do not need any to teach me of the need to seek out the whole truth before offering judgement. Even so, I spare a brief time, in order to judge justly in a hard matter. Were I as hasty as you, I might have slain the Elf and been done with it, for I am charged to defend my kingdom against all foes, even those who have been invited in as guests. But I do not slay any needlessly, and not gladly even when it is needed. Neither do I talk in vain. So be comforted. Stand by your son and be silent until you are bid speak!”

Thorin stood again to address his nation. “The assembly has been shown evidence that an orcish arrow did cause injury to Gimli. A dead orc was found, confirming what the arrow told of the true attacker. Gimli himself gave an account of how he came to be injured and none here shall say the Elf enchanted the orc to do Gimli harm. Had they that power, to command the actions of orcs, would the Elves have permitted so many of their number to be slain by orcs recent wars? The orc alone did injure Gimli. Of this charge the Elf Legolas is hereby acquitted.”

Gimli sagged in relief, and exhaled, almost a moan, but came to attention once again as a new voice cut into the silence.

“Now tell me of the enchantment, Gimli, son of Gloin,” said Thranduil, half kindly, half mockingly. “For the words of one whom my son has so befriended will be welcome indeed.”

Gimli would never forget standing under the piercing eye of the Elvenking, stabbed by his shrewd gaze. It felt as if it would be foolish to attempt any deceit before him and dangerous to try; and all while he was conscious of the Dwarrow in the room, watching and seeking for signs of enchantment, listening, and holding in check a rising wrath and impatience.

“Legolas is of great worth!” Gimli bellowed to the assembly. “Yes, Inbul-hibir fundhamâd-ublag. a pointy-eared lembas-muncher.”

This was met with jeers, but he pressed on.

Gimli could not bear to see Legolas in chains. That creature of the air, of the wind and of open skies. He needed desperately to hold him, to release him, to rub the numbness from his wrists.

Gimli gathered together the last of his reserves to address the crowd. “He is not only my friend but also my husband.”

This time, the engineers amongst them feared for the structural integrity of the chamber at the stomping of boots, thudding of axes on the ground and roars of amazement, surprise, anger and general excitement all mingled.

After several minutes, the sound had not subsided so, Gimli ploughed on as if he could not hear the cacophony around him, and the strength of his conviction raised his voice such that the clamour died down around him.

“Were I under enchantment, could I say that he is as stubborn as a donkey and sometimes I wonder that his head is not made of wood with all the stupid nonsense he sometimes says? And the tra-la-la-lally all the day long. Sometimes it warms my heart, but sometimes it makes me want to push him off the horse and try to manage to ride it alone. He sings at every bird. And has no shame, skyclad will he go, and any puddle that is not iced over he will strip and frolic in. He lies and keeps not true count in battle, for I have seen him mow down a dozen necks but count them as one.”

It was not easy for Gimli to remain seated. He wanted to go to his lover. To run his hands through his hair. He wished to comb him, and braid him and clean his hair. His mouth wished to nibble at those sensitive ear tips and wait for Legolas, so responsive, to shudder, and whimper his pleasure. Instead, he spoke on.

“That horse again, he pets it and cossets it as if it were a tame ferret playing among dwarrowlings.”

“As I said, he has no shame, but only for himself. He will never risk touching my beard in public lest he dishonour me.”

Gimli was no longer listening to the responses of the assembly and now closed his eyes as he continued in his recitation. “He rides upon his horse too recklessly and he has no sense of time, always is he late to counsels and I must make excuses for him. I must act as a nursemaid for he will not eat unless reminded and at that, he will eat nonsense, not hearty filling fare.”

On and on Gimli went, listing the small grievances and annoyances.

He snorted as he stifled a laugh. “We both don’t have much time for stupid Nolodor Elves who make fun of his accent, dance as if they are asleep and generally spend their time looking down on people. That’s one thing we agreed on early on. Certainly, there are a few exceptions, and they have no malice about them, they just irritate us.”

Gimli’s eyes were now hard and serious. One of the healers attempted to wipe his brow but Gloin pushed him away.

“I did not know!” Gimli shouted.

At every pause Gloin feared the lad may run out of momentum, but from an unknown source, his strength continued to be renewed.

“I did not know there were different types of Elves. Most of what I know of Elves was learned in the nursery, tales our people have passed down and twisted and some of which are plain wrong. Elves too know little of us, for we hoard our stories, and secrets and knowledge of us, so they too must make do with fables and bitter wrongs remembered.”

Gimli started up again, as if just remembering. “He is annoying. He starts to say something then will be distracted by a butterfly, or a special leaf or a glint of sunshine. If you sleep beside him, you’re in for a shock if you didn’t know they rest with their eyes open. I am annoyed with him that for many months he would not speak of his love for me. He said he did not wish to lose my friendship, to distract me in battle. Then when it became clear he could not keep his secret he feared this,” he looked around, “the reaction of both our peoples!”

“But still I love him. I would forsake my mother and father, all my kin for him. If all my wealth were needed to ransom him, gladly would I give it and more. I have walked across the world with him and I would do so again and walk twice that length for him. Were our Maker to ask that I give up my craft for him, I would let all my skill be taken. Yet would I love him. I would not be parted from him, not due to enchantment, but over the many days we have been together, moment by moment, he has shown me his worth, his kindness, his honour in these things I have spoken and more. Would you separate a Dwarf from his One? If so, tell the Maker he has made me wrong, for my heart to be thus.”

“Blasphemy!” hissed some voices above.

Gimli ignored them. “If this be an Elvish jest, as some say, then it is too bitter for laughter for he has my whole heart.”

“Shall we ever dwell in sight of past wrongs? Thus, shall we continue? Shall I act in vengeance for my father’s imprisonment? Then Thranduil and his kin, the hoards massed outside, wreak vengeance for Legolas’ torment. Aye, torment, for to keep an Elf bound and underground by force is a torment! Abides he here under the mountain only for the love of me.”

“Elves are like us. The children of Iluvatur, like the children of Mahal, would never dare to force their suit where it is not accepted. They would never touch another in lust without permission.”

At this Gimli stood. Slowly he turned, so that it seemed to all those in attendance that he had looked directly at them. Gimli drew strength from the very mountain around him.

“For children of Iluvatur, like the children of Mahal, to be sundered from their One is the highest torment. Let him go.”

There was a long silent moment then the assembly once again burst into cries and exclamations. Gimli turned an eye to Legolas and smiled, brilliant, for a fraction of a second before he returned his attention to king Thorin.

Would that he could embrace Legolas, but he was held up by healers and Legolas was still in chains. Despite this, Legolas pressed forward and came to stand close to him and tenderly, he held Gimli’s hands between his.

When he fell silent, Gimli felt worn out.

The Dwarrow in the assembly did not lack for breath and once again burst into loud cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insult from theDwarrowscholar.com. Inbul-hibir fundhamâd-ublag = a pointy-eared lembas-muncher
> 
> "any puddle that is not iced over he will strip and frolic in" U know I read a similar line in another fic. Sorry I can't remember which one, in order to credit the author.
> 
> Can you guess what comes next? Feel free to share your theory in the comments. (Don't worry, it's already written, ideas have not yet dried up!).
> 
> I will not give any spoilers, but virtual (socially distanced) high-five to you if you get it.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the following people for your lovely comments and feedback:  
> Dzastina  
> draccarys  
> ltnjmy  
> CJ_Lee  
> Angeluscaligo  
> Timemidae  
> Toomanypeople  
> Phangrell  
> Winterlove4  
> Ivydragon  
> Shinyunderwater  
> Estella39  
> Pandora_de_Romanus  
> greensoftie  
> Isadora  
> PrincessGhoti  
> boop
> 
> Thanks also to anyone whose name I missed and to those who have left kudos.
> 
> It is so heartening to know you are not writing into the void and to know that people are enjoying the story. I love hearing from you and thank you again for commenting.

The mood in the chamber was unlike anything Thorin had ever experienced. Ordinarily, when Dwarrow were roused to great anger there would be an enemy in plain view. That anger would be channelled to motion easily, channelled to fist and axe and mattock. It would blaze in fury, in vengeance, in defence and then flare out, to remain banked, until once again summoned to the aid of Dwarfkind.

Indeed, when Dwarrow felt fear, that sentiment was mastered, then harnessed to the same purpose as anger.

Here, in several blows, their notion of the world was threatened. Gimli was not a known liar, he was not one delirious after consuming strange mushrooms or babbling after one tankard too many of ale. He was one who was respected. Gimli was a Dwarf who was known to have selflessly risked his life in the protection of Middle Earth. He was a Hero of Erebor himself now, and growing up, he had been in full public view as a son of a Hero of Erebor. He was known to be steadfast and honest by all those in the chamber. It was true that everyone had seen his wild days, but they had not caused lasting damage to any other or to his reputation. Many Dwarrow, before their own beards had grown in fully, would probably have similar tales to tell. No. Gimli was not known as a teller of untruths. He was known as a steady, right-thinking, honourable, reliable and honest Dwarf.

Before them lay the possibility, laid out bare, that he was not bewitched. Before them lay the possibility that they were wrong; that their friends, parents, loved ones were wrong. Before them lay the possibility that what they knew about Elves was not true. That some, at least, of their history may be twisted. That Elves may have some genuine grievances against their people. That Elves were not a monolith to be hated, but individuals, all with their own stories. And that possibility terrified them.

To what, then, would they cling, if not to their knowledge of their hatred? They would be left falling, as if an outcrop of bad rock suddenly gave way beneath them without warning. On what would they rebuild? What would be a true foundation and what would be more shifting sand?

After the assembly had roared their collective anger, they were left disorientated, with nowhere to channel it. A restless and uneasy silence fell again.

Thorin raised his arm then spoke into the heavy silence.

“My lords, my people,” he said. “Listen to the words of Gimli, son of Gloin, one of the Nine Walkers and saviours of Middle Earth: We triumphed over Mordor on the fields of battle and the blood of Men, Elves, Hobbits and Dwarves was shed in that just cause. But against the darkness in all our hearts let us also now take the victory. I bid you to ponder the truth in these words and to cast aside hatred. The work of the Enemy was in such sundering. The Enemy’s power was in drawing friend into war with friend. The enemy gloried in doubt and suspicion and mistrust. We are Dwarrow. We are strong enough to set hatred aside.”

The people clung to these words. They clung to the new certainty offered. To the hope that in this dark mine at least one had a torch, that at least one knew the way out to air and that they should follow him.

There was no sound of protest when, at a gesture from the king. The guards came to unchain Legolas.

Thorin’s voice carried as he spoke. “Be it known that Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, now called Eryn Lasgalen is now free in this realm. None shall hinder his coming and going. Let your suspicion and folly run off and be burned away, as we were burned by Smaug the Terrible in days gone by.”

The pain and fog were creeping up around him again. Gimli noticed that Legolas’ boots still had blood all over them. It had dried dark brown, not black like orcish blood. As it had not been cleaned off while still fresh, the boots would be ruined. It was as if his mind could only grasp hold of the small details, the roiling mass of this day having overwhelmed him.

Legolas stood tall and proud again. Despite his rough, ill-fitting clothing, his demeanour was regal, and his eyes were locked on Gimli. There are many strange and diverse things in the world. When one travels to the East, their food is unfamiliar. To one from the plains of Rohan the mountains and the habits of their peoples are an oddity. The tangled web of Shire genealogies was not one easily deciphered. There was, however one thing all peoples could recognise, regardless of tongue or station. All people could recognise the look one shared with one’s beloved. Legolas and Gimli seemed to draw strength from each other, the heat in their gazes drawing around them, and cocooning them in a warmth and in a private space only the two of them occupied.

Regardless of Thorin’s words, and the evident truths before them, some chose to cling to the familiar hatreds. For others it was convenient to embrace a contrary position, regardless of their own thoughts on the matter. There would always be those who feared change and talk of change and queer ideas. They were comforted by the familiar, even if that which was familiar was also noxious. Some could see the opportunity in providing a voice to lead those who were too fearful to step into a new light.

“Folly?” asked one Councillor, his gold cloak shimmering. “Nay, my king, we see clearly the enchantment. Do you not think we do not understand his purpose? He wishes to make mock of us. The Dwarrow of Erebor are not to be made the butt of an Elvish joke.”

Whether or not that remark would have gained support became a moot point. The attention of everyone in the room was diverted to Dwalin, who had entered the chamber. As Dwalin muscled through the crowds, Dori followed. Instinctively the crowd parted. They could see a look which told them that they could either step aside or be trampled flat. In Dori’s straining arms was a large anvil.

As Gloin stood in the throne room behind his son, he began to wonder when he himself had come to see the truth of it, when he had given every excuse not to. Bitterness at his imprisonment many years ago, had fallen away. He was not sure when this change had occurred. He was not sure when had known that an Elf held his son’s heart, without enchantment. Like everything to do with Gimli it had come upon him suddenly. One day he had noticed that the fluff of fuzz on his chin, that Gimli had been born with, was long enough to braid. Indeed, the braids Gimli soon put in were pathetic, rat-tails of tiny braids, but he indeed had enough to braid. Then one day he had noticed that the wooden toy hammer had been replaced by a real one, and instead of hammering at stones and getting in the way, Gimli was useful in a workshop. One day Gloin had noticed that Gimli’s axe-forms, which had been clumsy and bumbling, now flowed with grace and there was deadly power behind each stroke. One day, Gloin had noticed his little pebble was no longer so. Likewise, Gloin could not pinpoint when it had happened, but Gloin had accepted that his son-in-law was an Elf.

Gloin had been angry when Gimli had written some foolishness about being wed, simply because he had had a tumble with an Elf. Then Gloin had been worried that Gimli had simply found himself in a situation from which he did not know how to honourably extract himself. Gloin knew chastity was not a virtue Gimli set any store by. If all the Dwarrow Gimli had tupped had claimed to be married to him, then Gimli would have dozens of spouses scattered throughout Dwarvendom. Gloin even suspected some Mannish encounters in Dale. Bedding an Elf was reckless and distasteful indeed, but there was no need for such an error to ruin his life.

Then, when Gimli had returned to Erebor with an Elf in tow, he had observed them together in silence. He had seen the gentle looks and touches which passed between them as they rested in their home and they had surprised him. He had never thought of a cold Elf being tender. That smooth, stretched-out face was ever turned towards Gimli. His tiny smiles at Gimli’s mannerisms. Those long fingers ever brushing against Gimli’s nose, hands, back, and occasionally even a tiny caress on the tip of a braid. Gimli did not treat him like a fragile thing. He shoved him and clapped him on the back like any other Dwarf. Legolas’ shy smile met Mili’s small kindnesses. Shy, not haughty. Who had ever heard of a shy Elf? But Gimli had brought one home.

Gimli had never brought a lover home to them before. Oh, of course, those companions of his with whom he had had a friendly tumble would come from his room, tousled and grinning. Together they would all break bread, but they were never introduced as lovers. Gloin had expected to have years of courtship to get used to the idea of his little pebble having a spouse.

Tired as he had been over the past few days, Gloin had not been able to sleep. He had spent his time alternating between Gimli’s bedside and trying, through diplomatic means to secure the Elf’s release.

Since the attack on Gimli, even more worry had pressed down on his heart. Gloin had had little respite from worry since he had left Erebor with Gimli almost seventeen months ago. At the forefront of his mind was the memory of the Company and their journey to reclaim Erebor. Gloin owned that on many occasions, death had missed them by merely the smallest of measurements. He knew the peril of such a quest and every day he had lived in fear of receiving the news that Gimli had been lost.

He took heart from the fact that at the very least, Gimli’s journey would have four miraculous Hobbits and not just one, but all the same, would that he had gone in Gimli’s place. When Gloin had left Gimli in Rivendell, it had been with a heavy heart. Though Gimli was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested and strong, skilled in weapons and was everything Dwarrow wished to be, in Gloin’s mind he was still a tiny thing, running about their home with nothing on but a breechclout and the fluff on his chin. He looked at Gimli and saw the tiny bundle Mili had struggled to keep warm, while Gloin strove to find work in Mannish settlements, to ensure there would be food to eat. He looked at Gimli and saw a young Dwarf with a beard not really long enough to braid, but braided anyway, diligently learning Inglishmek and for weeks not speaking a word and only signing so as to learn it all the better, giggling as Bifur taught him rude words. He saw the laughing, handsome young dwarf making merry and dancing and so full of life, who should be protected from danger, not sent headlong toward it.

But Gloin had had to admit what he did not wish to speak: that he was now an old man. That he could not walk across the world again and with a heavy heart, he had sent Gimli with Tharkûn.

Now this Elf was saying he saw Gimli as he did. As a precious jewel to be cherished, not a plaything to be used as a puppet then discarded.

As he stood, silently, Gloin wept, and in one so stern and proud it seemed the more grievous.

Dwalin cast a look at Gloin as Dori set the anvil before the throne. Dwalin signed _are you sure_?

Gloin gave a single nod.

Gloin’s worry for Gimli had expanded to include fear for the Elf. When he had heard that the Elvenking was entering Erebor, Gloin had set into motion his plan. He had sent a message to Mili that Gimli needed to be brought from his sickbed, to the throne, regardless of his condition. He knew that even if the freedom of Legolas were secured, fearful people could easily be roused to a mob. Legolas needed to come under the protection of Dwarrow law at the very least.

To be anvil wed, the only requirements were willing hearts and two witnesses of ‘good standing’. All the other formalities and ritual steps of a standard wedding could be dispensed with. In fairness, full courtship was now considered old-fashioned by many, and there was no shame in couples having a courtship shorter than the full three years. An anvil wedding was something else. It was normally only acceptable in times of crisis or scandal, but if an Elven army at the gates and an Elf One in chains under the Mountain were not ‘crisis or scandal’, he did not know what would meet the requirements of the definition. The king and all the assembled Dwarrow should suffice as witnesses. Gloin smiled grimly. He had dreamed of Gimli’s wedding. He had imagined crowds, but not like this.

As Gimli grew up, Gloin had imagined all the ceremonies associated with a full three-year courtship. Meeting the family, formally; he supposed the Mirkwood dungeons would count for that. An exchange of jewellery. Gloin had been setting aside choice gems for Gimli’s courtship since setting up home in Erebor. The first thing he had done in his home after Gloin and Mili arrived, was to chisel a small recess beneath his bed in which to store courtship gems to be given to the family of the intended. He supposed that the Arkenstone given to Thranduil would have to satisfy that ceremony in his heart. There was the ceremonial battle. The recent battles against the forces of Sauron could mark that requirement at complete. Gloin had imagined the rich Durin Blue robes Gimli would wear. He had imagined it down to the embroidery. Now here was Gimli barefoot in a sickroom gown and his one was in rags. Gloin pushed all those thoughts aside and went to his son.

Gloin supported Gimli as he stood and stepped forward. Gimli then faced the Elf and grasped Legolas’ forearm. Mili gently placed Legolas’ other hand on the anvil between them, and Gimli placed his own hand beside Legolas'.

__________________

Gimli had always thought he would be nervous or elated or feel some other strong emotion when he came to say his marriage vows to his betrothed, before his family and friends. But here he was already wed. This was simply a declaration of what was already true. All the same, his voice was husky as he called out.

“By Mahal do I swear. I wed thee Legolas. ‘Till the stone doth take me, thou shalt be my husband.”

One night in Lothlorien, when the loss of Mithrandir had still been a fresh pain in their hearts, Legolas had come across Gimli in the moonlight. He did not know what had drawn him to that grove. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar baritone of Gimli’s voice forming over Khudzul. Gimli was ready enough to join in songs in the common tongue, but he had never heard him sing, or even speak their secret tongue before. It was as if to form those words, Gimli’s spirit needed to reach into the very earth. When Legolas drew near, Gimli was alone, by a stream, and held a knife to his own throat. Down his cheeks flowed tears, made mithril in the moonlight. Before, when Gimli had wept after discovering Balin’s tomb, he had drawn up his hood to cast his face into shadow. Now Gimli’s face was visible in the silver light and Legolas had never before seen such a look of anguish and despair. For an instant, Legolas was paralyzed then he sprang forward to grip Gimli’s wrist. Legolas was fast, but he knew Gimli was a trained warrior, and braced himself for a blow, but none came.

Gimli’s voice rasped as he said in a low voice “fear not”. Gently he had unwrapped Legolas’ fingers from his wrist, then drew the knife to his throat again. He cut some hair from the underside of his beard, then scattered the hair into the water. In Westron he spoke “For the Dwarrow unburried in Khazâd dum,” then said some words in Khudzul. Again, the knife drew close to Gimli’s face. This time, with a tremble in his lips, Gimli had cut one of the braids in his beard, leaving a ragged patch. “For Balin, Oin and Ori,” and more ritual-sounding Khudzul as he cast the braid into the stream. Finally, Gimli reached back and cut a braid from his head. “Tharkun.” He set down the knife and sang in Khudzul once again, now with his hands pressed to the earth.

Slowly, as if dealing with a startled fawn, Legolas had crouched beside him. With slow, deliberate movements, he had eased to a seated position beside Gimli as he chanted. A strange feeling of helplessness washed over him as he watched the Dwarf weeping. He sang for long minutes, or was it hours. Finally, Gimli had fallen silent and sighed then sat back, with his eyes glazed.

Legolas had slipped a broad, rough hand into his own. Legolas had tensed, bracing for the rejection, but none had come. Together they had sat until sunrise.

How many such tiny steps and gentle movements had it taken them to reach this place? To be standing together before an anvil. Part of it seemed like a dream, but nothing was more solid in his mind than Gimli. The same Dwarf of whom he had spoken words of contempt and had privately urged both Elrond and Mithrandir to exclude from the quest.

They could even laugh together now about the prejudices they had once held.

In the boat, as they sailed away from Lothlorien, they had come up with questions and occasionally they would call to the other “true or false” before stating a belief their people held about the other.

“No neck, just head, beard then shoulders.”

Gimli had blushed a deep red then lifted his beard to show Legolas his thick, sturdy neck.

“Some Elves are hundreds, even thousands of years old.”

Legolas’ tongue had felt awkward as he replied, already thoughts of the short span of mortals were filling his mind. “True,” he had whispered. Gimli had not questioned him further on that and he had not volunteered his age. This bridge between them had still been fragile.

“Made of stone.”

Gimli had given a hearty laugh and shaken his head. Then, with a knowing wink he had added “though there are some who would say parts of me are made of stone.” He followed this with a bawdy laugh.

He was met with a blank look from Legolas.

“You know,” Gimli flicked his eyes downward towards his belt, but Legolas still looked confused.

Now, with embarrassment building up, Gimli had wondered if he would have to give a talk on the badgers and moles to this Elf.

Legolas attempted to explain Elven marriage, but he kept tripping over his words, looking at the water, the clouds and anywhere but Gimli. "A bodily union is required for an Elven marriage," was all that he could manage. Gimli appreciated the distinction; some Dwarrow wed for companionship only, without being lovers.

Gimli himself, candidly gave an overview of his own history and the general attitudes of his people. He did not divulge the mysteries of Dwarven marriage, but traced a basic outline.

Legolas had stopped at his turn in rowing. He pulled away slightly and shook his head. “So you have been with many, yet you say you are not wed?”

Gimli flinched at the words, then he had swallowed hard. He could see they were walking on fragile ground. Would this new excavation crumble so easily? At this first boulder, would they abandon this new seam of friendship? Gimli had never been ashamed of enjoying his body, and would not start now, despite the criticism of the number of lovers he had had. At the same time, he was trying to understand the Elf’s perspective and share his own without accusation, anger or rancour. As they had set up camp that evening, the discussion hung in the air before them. There were no longer the cruel, bitter jibes of their first interactions; they were polite to one another, but this new thing they had carved out, seemed to have retreated. Gimli had joined Legolas on watch that night. Aragorn had looked dubious but having seen them in the boat without coming to blows, he said nothing.

Throughout the night they had spoken, until once again the dawn had bought new understanding to them both.

Now Legolas stood before Gimli and repeated the vows.

They were anvil wed.

“Abkân!” cried out Gloin and the crowd ululated.

Then, in a loud voice that rang clear, Legolas addressed the crowd, his hand still on the Anvil. “All my days on Middle Earth will I cleave to Gimli and no other. Also, by Eru Ilúvatar do I swear this, and may I be struck down this very hour if I bear him ill will or cause him, by whatever means, to act in a manner against his own volition.”

Mili and Gloin stepped back as Legolas came and knelt before Gimli. Gimli rested the whole of his weight on Legolas’ shoulders and the Elf’s hands were tight around his waist and held him up. The kiss was fierce then it gentled as it continued. The kiss communicated beyond words that here was his home, his heart, his air.

Legolas had to tilt his head up and as they kissed he made soft sounds of desire. The taste of Gimli was so familiar and his tongue pressed forward, slipping between gently parted lips.

Gimli arched forward, pressing himself against Legolas.

Gloin cleared his throat.

Legolas pulled back, then smiled shyly at his husband, twice over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> abkân is a word for Marriage found on thedwarrowscholar.com
> 
> I like to think that if necessary, the marriage can be dissolved, and that those who want to divorce can, but I did not want to add that to the vows. Although it is positive that no one is forced to be bound unhappily for life, it would be a bit of a downer in the vows.


	29. Chapter 29

Gimli snorted back his laugh when Bombur’s youngest daughter came rushing in, out of breath. Bilbur was always late; no one was quite sure why. Even if you all made ready in the same place and departed at the same time, Bilbur would always be the last to reach the destination. Once, Gimli had tried to find out why this was so. Did she dawdle and daydream along the way? He had left weapons training with her, taken his usual route to the alehouse, walking with her at a normal pace, but when they arrived, everyone else had reached the place before them, the food was half-eaten and everyone had already begun drinking without them. But she was the most trustworthy Dwarf he knew. All knew that any secret shared with her was one dropped into a bottomless pit; it would never be revealed. He had thought of telling her of his marriage when he first returned to Erebor, but he had not wished to burden her with the knowledge. Now, she handed Gloin a bundle then stepped back.

Gloin shook out an intricately woven robe of deepest green. The gold thread embroidered in it caught the light and glinted like dewdrops in a field at dawn. It smelt slightly musty from all the years it had remained hidden. Gloin kissed Gimli’s head as he helped him put the robe over the hospital robes he wore.

Although the arrow had not been poisoned, infection had ravaged the wound despite the healers’ best efforts. Gimli had fought off the fever but was still feeling weak and as if his all bones were made of soft clay. Once again, the healers were holding Gimli up on the stool. One had given him a sip of water and the other had wiped his brow, where beads of sweat had begun to roll down his face. Gimli shook his head as he was offered a small vial of milk of the poppy, but his wan appearance spoke of the pain he was enduring.

Gloin slipped the green robe over Gimli’s shoulders and nodded to Mili as she draped a cloak over Legolas’ shoulders. She had recognised it as one Dori had embroidered many years ago and which Gloin had hidden in the stash of items he would give to Gimli when he was courting. As any parent would, they had been preparing for Gimli’s courtship since he was young. Before reaching Erebor, they had not managed to do much, but slowly and steadily, over the years they had made preparations. They had commissioned a few pieces, and Gloin had collected gems, but the stash was largely of coin. The money was set aside for the purchase of essential items for when Gimli had actually begun to court and to pay for the feasts someone of Gloin’s status would be expected to host. This cloak was to have been worn by Gimli at one of the betrothal ceremonies. It was grey, with the embroidery in silver thread creating an effect of water shimmering on the surface of a lake. Mili saw Bilbur hand Gloin a small wooden box. From it he took out two marriage beads of mithril inlaid with sapphires, and handed them to Gimli. The tears had not stopped flowing down Gloin’s cheeks and with one hand Gimli wiped away the tears.

This day was rivalling any of the strange and fluid dreams he had had the last few nights as he had caught minutes of fitful sleep in chairs by Gimli’s bedside or in a bed in his empty house. Gloin took a breath, then walked over to Thranduil. Despite his newfound generosity of spirit, his feet were slow to obey, perhaps being wary of the directions they had been given. Without ceremony, he handed the small case of jewels to the Elvenking with a curt nod. Thranduil’s face did not change at all, the piercing eyes not even blinking. Gloin then planted his feet and stood next to Thranduil.

Gimli pitched his voice low, as if to himself, though he knew Legolas would be able to hear. “Lad, we do not need to do this part.”

A part of Legolas wanted to agree. He wanted to protest loudly. To refuse to be exposed in such a way. Why should all these Dwarrow be allowed to see his hair unbound? He cringed at what his father would think. But it was that calm acceptance that broke him. Gimli’s stoic resolution to continue and endure no matter what came, shattered him. “Ai, Gimli!” he called out under his breath. Here Legolas had the ability to spare Gimli pain and humiliation. Legolas’ true mortification would be understood by only one other person in the room; Thranduil. Gimli on the other hand, would be humiliated before everyone he knew, before his whole nation if Legolas refused to braid. Legolas braced himself mentally.

One of the first times he had been allowed to visit Dale alone, many yeni before the dragon, when it was really no more than a hamlet, Legolas had nearly caused a diplomatic incident. It was a hot day and he had been swimming in the lake. When he had finished, he did not want the bother of getting dressed again, so he had made a small bundle of his clothes then continued to walk to the town. He had not understood at first what all the shouting and commotion were about; someone had actually thrown a bucket of water at him. With hindsight, it had been obvious. Afterwards his brother had shaken him. “By the stars, Legolas. Have you ever seen a Man walking around without clothes? Why then did you think you could do so in a Mannish place?”

The king at the time had wanted compensation for ‘insulting the women of Dale’, including his wife and daughters, who had happened to have seen him walking past. Legolas had never found out exactly how it had been resolved. Whenever anyone had tried to speak to him of it, or to tease him, regardless of what he had been doing, Legolas would spring up. He would run out into the forest, or up a tree, or just disappear for several days. If Legolas had been doing something he enjoyed, the person who had brought up the incident would find a frog in their water goblet, or a horse in their bedchamber or honey in their shoes. If Legolas had been doing something particularly tiresome, like reading a Quenya text, forced upon him by tutors, the person who had brought up the subject would find a flower garland on their bed, or a honeycomb in their favourite place or a tame bird singing by their shoulder; but in this too Legolas was unpredictable and they may also have had to fish their clothes from river. Several weeks later, Thranduil had muttered “that Dale nonsense wasted gold unnecessarily.” Legolas had shrugged; what use was gold? That evening, however, Thranduil had found his wine mixed with salt, and after that, for several hundred years, no one had mentioned the incident in Legolas’ presence. He now acknowledged how immaturely he had responded and it was a thing he could now laugh about.

But this kind of exposure was different; to have his hair unbound in public, and to braid his beloved’s hair in public. Shame washed over him at the thought of witnesses to this intimacy. He knew though, that to refuse to give or receive a marriage braid here would be taken by these Dwarrow as a rejection of Gimli. With his cheeks burning, Legolas knelt before the stool on which Gimli was seated. He tilted his head to the side. Gimli redid the marriage braid which he had not taken out since the last time he had seen Gimli. There was some dried blood crusted on it, still. As quickly as he could, hunching over to shield his hands from view as much as he was able to, Gimli braided the seven-strand marriage braid. He put in the marriage bead, then reused the leather thong to tie off the end, otherwise the bead would slip out of the fine hair. Normally, this braiding would be a drawn-out part of their daily routine. The fingers would caress as much as braid, and on more than one occasion, the kisses they shared while braiding had led to the hair coming unravelled and dishevelled once again and the whole effort given up as a bad job, with no other recourse than to return to bed.

Legolas looked Gimli in the eye then closed his own, the blush burning over his face, neck and even creeping down his chest. Without needing to see what he was doing, he wove the familiar pattern into Gimli’s hair. He did it so quickly that he knew it hurt a little. He did not have the luxury of time to tease out the snags and gently smooth away tangles. In moments, the braid was done.

The king then signalled for the ceremonial gong to be struck.

After its echoes had stopped reverberating, Thranduil had nodded slowly to Legolas and dipped his head minutely toward Gimli, then without awaiting acknowledgement turned and glided out of the throne room unhindered.

Legolas knew Thranduil did not regard this as a real wedding. He had seen in Legolas’ eyes the truth of his marriage the moment he had looked upon him when he returned to Eryn Lasgalen. To have another wedding was simply another instance of mortal irrationality in his eyes.

Mili dismissed the healers then held Gimli up to prevent him from slumping down again. Legolas drew close to her as she spoke in a low voice. “There will be no wedding feast and when the Elvenking and his host leave Erebor, you too must depart, Legolas, and you must ride together with your kin as they return to Eryn Lasgalen. It is still not safe for you here.”

They all knew that in time, legal arguments would follow, challenging whether an Elf could be party to a Dwarrow marriage contract. For now, though, the marriage would stand as valid in the eyes of Gimli’s people. As his spouse, Legolas could not be held without trial or be assaulted or threatened without the accuser facing the full force of the law.

Though not mandatory, after the wedding vows were exchanged, the marriage was generally consummated. Normally, the happy couple would be led away after the ceremony, but before the feasting. Today, however, they were to have no celebrations. In this too, then were they to break with tradition. Gimli was too weak even to walk on his own.

Legolas had been locked in a dungeon and could no longer bear the pressure of the mountain above him. Gimli’s mother seemed to recognise this. Mili patted Legolas’ arm. “We will take Gimli to convalesce in Dale and you will meet him there soon. But come now! Walk by his side while you may.” Legolas and Gimli both felt grateful for the kindness in the words though the message tore at their heart.

Legolas could feel the tremors of exhaustion in Gimli’s muscles as he touched his arm and his face was worn and weary. There were fine lines on Gimli’s face that had not been there before this ordeal.

Bofur, Dori, Nori and Dwalin brought Bombur’s litter close to the throne and settled Gimli upon it. It was fortunate that as they aged, Dwarrow did not become like men; withering and diminishing. Dwarrow only slowed down, and if anything, became even stronger, until finally the stone claimed them once again. Together, they carried Gimli out of the throne room, with his husband and parents walking alongside him. The crowds parted before them. Bombur stood beside Bilbur in the throng and gave a subtle salute.

Gloin led the way and had attempted to take them out of the Mountain using a less crowded route, but it seemed all the streets were thronged.

Dwarrow stared much as we passed. Some of the reasonableness they had seemed to embrace when king Thorin spoke, seemed to already be ebbing away. To our face, they were now gravely courteous, saluting after the manner of Dwarrow with bowed head and hands upon the breast; but behind, as we passed we heard many calls, as those out of doors cried to others within to come and see me; 'the prince of the Elves'. Many used Khudzul but the meaning in their words was clear.

We came by arched streets and many fair pavements where dwarrowlings were playing among the frontages. Presently one of them caught sight of me and with a shout sprang across the street, followed by several others.

Despite everything that had happened, or perhaps because of it, Legolas could not suppress the joy bubbling up at being reunited with his other half. He laughed had stopped the litter to kiss Gimli once again. Gloin had shooed him away, that they may continue in their progress, but did so without rancour.

Dwarrow drew the children away, making the sign of warding against the evil eye. He heard them speak in Westron, as Khudzul is not taught to the young before they come of age. “When you are older, you will learn that folk are not always what they seem; for though you may take him for a fair and laughing thing, let me warn you, he is not. He is hard and cruel and wicked.”

Legolas now saw that Bifur had joined them, _My best boy he_ signed to Gimli. Bifur seemed to have gathered many others of Gimli’s friends and relations and they flanked the litter as they made their way through the streets; and as they did so there came the note of a clear sweet bell ringing in a tower of the main forge. Three strokes it rang, like silver in the air, and ceased: The third hour from the rising of the sun.

From a corner Gudrun pressed forward. She tried to speak but Gloin barred her way.

As they came through yet more doors at the further end, a sound of water fell upon their ears and the grey light suddenly felt more full. “There is the Running River,” said Gloin. “From here it hastens to the Gate. Let us follow it.”

Out of a dark opening, a wall of water issued forth and it flowed swirling in a narrow channel, carved and made straight and deep by the cunning of ancient hands. Beside it ran a stone-paved road, wide enough for many men abreast. Slowly along this we walked and round a wide-sweeping turn-and behold! Before us was the broad light of day. In front there rose a tall arch still, with carven work. A misty sun spent its pale light between the arms of the mountain and beams of gold fell on the pavement at the threshold.

Now before us the water fell noisily outward and foamed down towards the valley. We stood gazing out with dazzled eyes. We were come to the Front Gate and were looking towards Dale. “I never expected to be so pleased to see the sun again and to feel the wind on my face,” said Legolas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is winding down now. Thank you to everyone who has read it! If there is anything you had hoped to see, please let me know and if it is not already coming I can see if I can fit it in.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Mrs F, wherever you may be. I know the split infinitive is ‘the mark of a barbarian’ but sometimes it just can’t be helped.

The mountain loomed above them and a sturdy breeze buffeted them as they emerged from Erebor. Carved into the craggy sides of the mountain were stern figures, kings from ages past standing sentry. Gimli imagined their thoughts at the sight of an Elf coming from their mountain, half dressed in rags and half in courting finery.

Mili did not need to even use Inglishmek. At her speaking gaze, the litter was set down and the retinue stopped. Behind the crowd of their friends, other curious faces were trying to peer through but were prevented from trying to emerge. Even with most of his hair gone, and his beard white as snow, Dwalin still looked formidable. He crossed his arms to show off his muscles and Nori’s grin was like razors as he casually flicked a knife. No one would dare press forward. Legolas walked out of the mountain, together with Gimli, though Legolas bore the bulk of his weight and Gloin followed slowly behind them. With slow and unsteady steps, they made their progress down the walkway. The feeling of relief was almost tangible.

The sun was now shining warm and bright and long, clear-cut shadows were cast westward. Behind them, the Lonely Mountain lifted its white helm and snowy cloak. The army of Elves without the gate stood as still as the statues carved in the mountainside, the only movement coming from their banners fluttering in the breeze.

Legolas threw his head back. It was not that the air in the mountain had been stagnant; far from it. Gimli had taken pride in explaining how air from various parts of the mountain was circulated. Excess heat from the forges could be sent to a room at the turn of a dial. Clean, fresh air meant that Erebor had not that feeling of a mausoleum which had pervaded Khazad-dûm. The air, however, had a mineral quality. One could almost taste it. That was strange, but not the main problem. The thing he felt most keenly, was that circulated air was not like the breeze. It did not carry messages from trees and plants and birds and beasts. The song of the stars could not reach his ears under the mountain. The cleverly bounced and reflected lamplight and even sunlight which was carefully directed into the mountain was nothing like the caress of direct sunlight on his face. Each moment he spent under the mountain felt as if someone was pressing down on him. At first it would be a light and gentle press, but after several hours it was almost a physical pressure.

Now, at last, he felt the warmth of the sun on his face after days and days of waiting as it seemed, when he was becoming choked and dazed for want of it and he had thought he could bear it no longer. Legolas whispered, with a strange hoarseness to his voice. “I felt that I would die without you beside me and without the wind on my face.”

Gimli’s eyes fluttered shut with a look of pain at those words. Legolas took Gimli in his arms and kissed him under that sunlit sky. They cared not that they stood in the sight of many. And many indeed saw them and the light that shone about them. He felt Gimli begin to swoon and Legolas teased at his being a blushing bride, but nevertheless, Legolas’ face was creased in worry and without any words being exchanged, Gloin helped Legolas to slowly lower Gimli to a seated position on the ground with the stone at Legolas’ back, letting Gimli sag into his lap.

Exhaustion was in Gimli’s voice, but he spoke. Or tried to speak. There was so much unspoken between them, even now. His heart stirred with emotion at the thought of all that had transpired before the throne, at the knowledge of the fact that their relationship was no longer hidden. There was too much to unload, so he slipped into the teasing banter which had always been used as a vehicle for much deeper messages. He tried to keep his voice light, but a hint of genuine concern came through. “Are you angry with me, Legolas? he asked. “I laid bare all your faults before the assembled company. And said none of my own.”

Legolas’ hands were warm. Those long fingers held and caressed and held close with the message that he never wanted to have to let go. Instead of weeping, instead of laughing hysterically at the thought of what they could have lost, he focused on the joy of being reunited, and of being wed in the eyes of Gimli’s people.

“I am very cross, indeed!” said Legolas, laughing and suddenly putting his arm about the Dwarf’s shoulders as he gazed down at his face. Gimli glanced in some wonder at the face now close beside his own, for the sound of that laugh had been truly gay and merry. When he had first looked upon Legolas’ face in the throne room, he had seen lines of care and sorrow that had not been there before. Now there was a great joy: a fountain of mirth enough to set a kingdom laughing, were it to gush forth but if he looked more intently, he perceived the worry still in the lines of his face.

“Indeed, you did your best,” said Legolas, “but you left out some important facts. Such as questioning for what purpose I would enchant snoring and farting into my bed.”

Gimli snorted a weak laugh at this then Legolas continued more seriously. “I hope that it may be long before we find ourselves in such a tight corner again between two such Kings. Still the assembled company learned more from you than you may have guessed, Gimli. You could not hide the fact that you sleep beside me daily, as you complained of my sleeping with eyes open. You could not hide the fact that I know only of hunting and singing and fighting Orcs and Spiders and have not the sophistication to be casting enchantments. I am just a bumbling bumpkin of a prince, not wise enough to spin such a plan, and that my father is so against it shows it not to be his own scheme.”

They knew that the opinions of the people would be slow to change, if ever. Today was but a minor victory, and to see it as a complete reversal of prejudice in many would lead only to disappointment. But it was a start. It was a beginning.

They held each other for a long while.

Gimli broke the silence and sighed. “Well, no need to brood on what tomorrow may bring and there is nothing more that we can do to help it. The board is set, and the pieces are moving.” As he spoke the hint of worry remained in his expressive face.

Gimli’s eyes took on that faraway look, reserved for rhapsodizing about the Lady. “Would that the Lady Galadriel had come upon Erebor. There, in audience with the king, attended by all who could fit in the audience chamber, she could have spoken of the great friendship between Khazad-dûm and the Elves.” Gimli was a realist though so he shrugged as he finished the thought. “But she was already held to be a witch and her presence would not have eased fears of enchantments, only increase them.”

Legolas once more allowed himself to caress Gimli’s hair, reassuring himself of his presence. Gimli pressed into the palm of my hand, eyes closed. He curled up in my lap facing me, legs tucked inwards and I cradled him in my arms. His breathing still did not sound quite right. I sang and looked up at the sky. I allowed my attention to wash over him. My fingers moved through his hair of their own accord for quite some time, then remembering the public venue I placed my hands on the ground beside me.

“Don’t stop, please,” Gimli whispered. He tensed minutely and looked up at me.

My chest clenched. I could not refuse him anything, and again I began the slow caress. He closed his eyes with a quiet sigh and relaxed in my lap. What I felt was nothing so crude as lust or arousal, but this closeness, Gimli falling asleep in my lap, under the open sky made me feel complete.

Legolas sat back, thinking, staring at the cloudy sky. He did not wish to wake him but the time they had together was short. Legolas’ voice was now gravely serious. “Well, Gimli,” he said, “I’ve been thinking a bit. We should strike out on our own. Can we manage it, do you think?”

Gimli’s hand rested on his for a long moment. “You are afraid,” said Gimli, his eyes still closed. “Do you fear that we will be sundered?” asked Gimli softly. “

Legolas responded. They had too little time together for sugar-coating his message. “Yes, that fear is ever present. One day, as inevitably as the dawn, that day shall come. We seldom name it; but we dwell ever in the sight of that shadow: sometimes it seems fainter and more distant; sometimes nearer and darker. It is growing ever nearer as each day passes.”

“At the same time, the fear and disquiet of my kin grows too, and they are leaving Middle Earth. Less than a year ago we won back the world from darkness and many of our best people were slain. Frodo and Sam drove back the enemy beyond the point of return, but the telling of the tale is too strange for the ordinary folk to grasp. They know of bread and of toil, of children and of war. They know not of rings and wraiths and Elves. You and I, we are too strange for them, we cannot tarry here.”

“You are right. We cannot wait here, for outside forces to part us. We must strike out on our own. Those who would understand may join us.”

“When?” said Legolas. “Have you a guess?”

“I would need to consult with Eomer as Liege Lord, and you would need to do the same with Aragorn, but neither would deny us leave to form the settlements we had discussed. Some years first in Minas Tirith rebuilding as we promised,” their hands clasped tighter together, “then we form our own settlements.”

Legolas was thankful for the advantage his long arms gave in this, as he circled them around Gimli’s shoulders. Here in this strange space where people spoke a tongue he had never before heard and did not understand and sang songs which were like unto the rumbling of the deep earth, his beloved seemed more strange than ever before but also more lovely. Now he had seen the offer of the release of death he knew that every moment they still walked Middle-Earth together must be seized.

“Soon things will be ready. Consider this but the deep breath before the plunge.”

Once again they embraced, then with reluctance Legolas murmured into Gimli’s ear, his lips touching the soft shell of his ear. “Gimli, mellon, I must speak with my kin, then I shall return to bid you farewell.” He could not resist a final kiss, then stood and made his way towards the waiting Elves.

_____________________________

All the while that their king was alone in the kingdom of Erebor, the Elves had waited beyond the gates in uneasy silence. They did not know that once again peace was being made. With every burst of shouting from the Mountain, they had begun to think Thranduil may have made a serious mistake in entering Erebor alone and had been killed, however, they saw there was nothing to be done but to obey his orders to wait without for three days and to believe he would return unharmed.

The sun was now climbing, and the mists at the foot of the mountain had been drawn up. Slowly the Elvenking had emerged from the Mountain and walked toward the host. He shared the tidings of Legolas’ release and at the news the trumpets rang out.

Rumour in some quarters of Erebor later declared that the King under the Mountain had also been bewitched, which was why he had allowed Thranduil to walk out of the mountain unmolested. They told of how sorcery was behind the decrees that the Elf Prince was not to be harmed. And some said that the Arkenstone had not been buried with King Thorin Oakenshield as rumoured, but that the Elvenking had possessed it and returned it to Erebor this day, in exchange for the release of his son.

As he had sat with Gimli in his arms, Legolas had seen all the army laid out before him. Faces he knew were dotted in the distance, but nowhere could he see a weapon. Now and again one elleth would turn to her companion, or another would take a pull from a flagon. Now and again a horseman would leap down and speak to a friend. Suddenly he realised: they were not on a war footing and never had been. They had come merely as a show of force but had not brought the means to wage war. The mass of Elves was in fact well-ordered and at a signal from their king they began moving in two lines. One swifter, mounted, another slower with Elves walking, and some who looked as if they were skipping. The rocks echoed then with voices and with song, as they had not done for many a day. There was the sound too, of elven-harps and of sweet music; and as it echoed towards them it seemed that the chill of the air was warmed, and they caught faintly the fragrance of woodland flowers blossoming in the spring.

Thranduil looked towards them. Tall he stood there, his eyes bright in his face and hand clenched as he gazed at Legolas. Legolas placed Gimli in the care of Gloin and Mili, then walked towards his father.

Legolas embraced his father, and his brother. The sunlight warmed him and he felt new life run in his veins; His name was spoken and he saw many that he loved, and some eyes were filled with pity for they saw that he was hurt, and their clear sight perceived his sorrow and unrest. He touched ears in greeting of those with whom he had spent many long years on patrol.

His brother was proud and his heart faltered as he saw the ragged garment beneath the shining cloak Gimli wore. He looked at Legolas and pity deeply stirred in him. It seemed to him that Legolas’ loveliness amid his grief would pierce his heart. And he looked at him and saw the grave tenderness in his eyes and yet knew that here was one who was set on his course though it was a path that led clear to grief.

“It is too late for me to turn away, whispered Legolas.” As he looked at him it seemed that something in him broke as though a bitter frost were yielding at the first faint passage of Spring. A tear sprang in his eye and fell down his cheek, like a glistening rain drop. His proud head drooped a little, then quietly, more as if speaking to herself than him: “even the little time you have is precious.”

Legolas smiled, though his heart could feel his pain, and embraced him again.

His brother said to him, “you will find me, waiting, when the time comes, if you would. It would ease my care, to know that you will not fade here in Middle Earth. I will help you sail.”

At the warm touch of his hand on his ears, Legolas turned again to embrace his brother. They pressed foreheads together and for a long moment breathed the same air together.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I posted this chapter then made several changes a few hours later (at 11pm London time), so if you got in there early, sorry for messing you around.

Legolas turned away from his father and brother to make his way back towards Gimli to bid him farewell. A part of him, selfishly, wanted Gimli to leave with him, but he knew that the state of Gimli's health would not permit him to make a journey, even the short distance to Dale. As he approached, the guards at the entrance to the Mountain remained motionless. A part of him wondered if these were the same guards from that ill-fated evening. His memories of their return to the Mountain were vague and he could not recall. They had made no move to stop him or to bar his way so likewise, he ignored them.

As he walked back towards Erebor Legolas realised this may be the last time. The last time walking towards Gimli? Never. Gimli was the pull he ever followed. Even the sea-longing could not draw him away from Gimli. The draw of that loyal heart, the bond of their love and of their bodies were as solid to him as the ground upon which he walked. His realisation was that it may be his last time to walk towards Erebor and he knew not whether he would see Gimli’s parents again.

In some ways, their experiment had failed. The situation was still too volatile for them to be able to be together in safety in Erebor. But there had also been much success. Legolas had had the chance to see Gimli’s home and since before the last age, he was the first Elf to receive a welcome, even though the manner of his departure was markedly different from his arrival.

Both he and Gimli had planted the seeds of knowledge which would hopefully push through against ignorance. From observing how the people of Erebor lived, he could now share so much knowledge. No dwarven secrets, he would never reveal those, but he could now confirm the false nature of so many rumours. They did not live in dirt and squalor, eating worms from the ground, surrounded by troves of wealth gleaned from avarice and violence. He could tell them of Mili’s translucent sculptures, of the way they caught the light. She had shown him how the light could be split into different colours. Her pleased excitement reminded him of Gimli speaking of the glittering caves. She had explained that she did not trade her craft outside of Erebor, due to the difficulty of safely transporting such fragile items. She had eagerly shown him the different styles of glass while they both sat at a highly polished granite table, admiring them, and all the while he was being fed heavy, sticky pastries.

Only in Minas Tirith had he found out that Gimli had a sweet tooth and in Erebor, he had delighted in seeing Gimli have all his favourite treats, brought by the basketful by friends and neighbours. Gimli would urge Legolas to try each kind, with a nervous look, worried he would not like them, then, like the dawn, delight would burst over Gimli’s face as Legolas smiled and enjoyed the treats of his culture. When they were alone in their room, Gimli would lick clean the grains of sugar and the trails of syrup on Legolas’ fingers and around his mouth, then carry on licking – just to be sure.

When Legolas reached the place where Gimli, Mili and Gloin stood they all fell silent for a while. He saw Gloin glancing anxiously at the massed army as if at any moment he might see them change their mind and surge forward and battle his kin.

They bore with them the green banner of the Elvenking and as they watched, the last of the Elven army was now floating away. As silently as wisps of white cloud borne on the stiffening breeze from the east that was now flapping and tugging the flags and standards of the mountain. Away at the front of the column, Thranduil, walking alone, could now be seen, majesty glittering upon him and in a mighty sweep mounting his Elk and leading the host away till it was lost to view in a haze and shimmer, as they made to return to the woods far beyond, which lay twenty leagues away.

The thin light showed his brother Therion’s form as he stood motionless, waiting for Legolas.

Those who remained in the forest while the Elvenking and his host had ventured forth soon received news from the birds that loved their folk and very great indeed was the commotion among all things with wings that dwelt nearby, and swift-flying messengers flew here and there across the sky. Far over the canopy of trees the glad tidings spread: “Legolas lives! His One is safe!” even before the Elvenking had returned to his realm.

During the time Legolas had been sitting with Gimli and then speaking with Thranduil and Therion, the informal guard at the entrance to the Mountain had changed. From the beginning of his joining the Fellowship, he had had to recall how to measure time in the way of mortals. Before, to sit in the boughs of a tree and watch as birds found a home there, laid their eggs, then sent the fledglings into the sky was something not at all unusual. He would leave his marks in the woods that he might be found in case of emergency. When he returned to the palace, Therion would continue the conversation they had been having as if he had merely turned away for a moment. Now, he had moved into this swift moving, mortal rush of time, and he could not always keep track of it. Sometimes, time flowed rapidly, the days rushing past, and sometimes, a sweet moment could stretch as if it were an eternity. Sometimes, with Gimli in his arms it did both.

This time, as he walked towards Erebor there was no grand procession as there had been when he entered the mountain. To one side, Nori now stood beside Arod, and Dwalin was there with his bow, quiver and sheathed white knives, wrapped in cloth.

Gloin, Mili and Legolas were of one accord; Gimli was not well enough to travel on a long journey. They also agreed that despite the public reprieve Legolas had received, both he and Gimli would do well not to linger in Erebor, lest the seam shifted direction and they were faced with overt hostility.

Gimli needed to confirm a deputy, who was then to lead a convoy to Minas Tirith, which would also form the core of the Aglarond settlement.

Legolas would return to Eryn Lasgalen and wait there for two weeks until Gimli was recovered. That would give him time to make arrangements for the Elves who were to assist in the restoration of the greenery of Minas Tirith and who were to settle in Ithilien. The groups would be largely the same Elves. Those who felt they needed to leave Eryn Lasgalen; perhaps because of what had been seared onto their minds’ eyes during the recent battles or even the duller pain of the losses in the time under Shadow. They would be the Elves who had not yet felt the call to leave Middle Earth. Of those who had been his closest companions, not all would join him. A few bore him malice due to his union with a Dwarf and would not deign to travel with him. The identity of some of those would surprise him, having valued their friendship over the many yeni they had tarried together in the Greenwood, then Mirkwood.

Mili would travel with Gimli to Dale in a few days then remain with him as he convalesced. Bifur and Bofur would serve as guards in case of any trouble seeking them out. Gloin, ‘Hero of Erebor’ would remain under the mountain and help prepare supplies for Gimli’s onward journey and to manage the politics of this unprecedented episode.

Legolas would meet Gimli in Dale, stay there a further two weeks to ensure Gimli was completely recovered; they could not afford to have him take ill on the road. They would send ahead all bulky items and together they would ride with Arod to join with the column of Dwarrow. With Arod’s speed, the distance a heavily burdened convoy could travel in two weeks would be matched in a matter of days and the aim was to join them on the road.

Mili stood close to Gimli. Whether she was simply embracing him in emotional support with one arm around his shoulders and her hand on his waist or physically holding him up could not be ascertained but Legolas could see a thin sheen of sweat on Gimli’s brow as he was determined to be on his feet for this farewell. Gloin stood to Gimli’s other side. Gloin’s gnarled hands were clasped over the top of his battle axe, serving as a prop as he stood.

Legolas kissed Gimli sweetly and gently, trying to say everything that needed to be said in that brief press. Gimli’s hand cupped the back of his head and the tremors which ran through his compact frame tore at Legolas’ heart. Gimli’s hands brushed against his ears, sending a shiver through his body. Gimli’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, and finally, for a long moment they pressed foreheads together then drew apart. Gimli’s lips were dry as he pressed one last soft kiss against his lips. The same thought was in both their eyes. _Two weeks apart._

Legolas then stepped back and offered a small bow, in turn to Gloin and Mili, who nodded in acknowledgement.

Gloin had thought long about his feelings toward the Elf. He had wondered If the simmering anger he had felt since receiving that fateful letter was because he felt he had been disobeyed somehow, rejected by his son, together with his son’s rejection of the prejudices they had shared. Gimli had always been a dutiful son. His transgressions were always born out of hot-headedness, rather than the shirking of duty or malice. When this Elf had appeared in Gimli’s letters and ruined the dreams he had had for Gimli’s future, the only way he could bear it was to pretend that it was not happening. So, when the Elf arrived in Erebor, was in his home, to Gloin, he was just another mole who had burrowed through where he should not have. He had decided to not speak, to not acknowledge his existence and in that he hoped that the proud Elf would feel small, unwanted and lonely, all the things Erebor refugees and Thranduil’s prisoners had felt. But he saw that all he had done was hurt his own son.

Legolas went back to Gimli and once again gently rested his forehead against Gimli’s and for a long moment they held themselves still before Legolas stepped back.

Gloin let his axe clatter to the ground then cleared his throat. “Son, pick that up for me.”

Mili looked at him quizzically. “Get it yourself! Can’t you see Gimli is in no position to be bending down.

“I was speaking not to Gimli,” Gloin said softly.

All the air rushed out of Legolas’ lungs. He held Gloin’s gaze for what felt like an eternity. He bent down and with both hands reverently handed him his axe. “May your beard grow ever longer, father.”

“Sullu zatâti gilkhal, lad. All will be well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Sullu zatâti gilkhal = All will be well.”  
> Courtesy of thedwarrowscholar.com


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to squadrickchestopher for the beta help in this chapter and assisting with getting Tab A into Tab B.
> 
> Thanks also to Meow023 from r/fanfiction on Reddit for spelling and grammar help in an earlier version of this chapter.

In the days that followed, Gloin, determination on his face, gathered about him those few who were known to have argued in favour of Legolas. Through them he discovered which Dwarrow would be willing to work alongside Elves in the restoration of Minas Tirith and who would be willing to help begin the settlement of Aglarond. But rumours scowled at his back as he went, and many seemed determined to scuttle their plans. He thought much but said little, working steadfastly.

Everywhere Gloin went, he found talk running like fire among the people concerning the enchantment that was apparently now upon himself and King Stonehelm, given that they had both condoned the marriage of Gimli and Legolas. Some held that such a union would never be valid, as Legolas was not a Dwarf. They spoke of amulets and runes of protection. They never had any details about what the aim of this supposed plot was.

Meanwhile, Gloin took the lead in securing supporters for the rebuilding of the gates of Minas Tirith and the Aglarond settlement and ordered things as he wished. He knew this was one of the last things he would do for his people, and for his son. His strength was now beginning to fail him. He felt he should have fallen on the battlefield, in the battle which had taken King Dain, but none of the remaining Heroes of Erebor had been permitted to see the fighting up close. They had been commanded by King Dain to remain as the final line of defence within the Mountain, in case they were overrun. In the end, they had not been needed, as bolstered by the aid of Elves, the Mountain’s defences had held firm. It seemed that Mahal had spared him for this final task; to help in securing the future of his people. He recognised it was now the Age of Men and without close cooperation with them, Dwarrow could not prosper.

He had a hard task to govern the people and direct the preparations. Perhaps nothing would have come of it had help not been at hand. The remaining members of the Company were stalwart supporters, as were most of their families. The queen herself had discretely aided in funding the journey the settlers would need to make and had also sent through to Dale a wedding gift; a clear green gem, the size of his fist and cut in the ornate Iron Hills fashion.

Gloin received news from speedy messengers sent up the river to the forest. A number of Elves would be ready to travel with them as they made for Minas Tirith with a view to settlement in Ithilien. A mixed settlement of Dwarrow and Elves would have been too much to hope for, but the distance between Ithilien and Aglarond was only a few day’s ride apart.

A great and growing fear was that the populations of the Khazâd would diminish in number if not enough dwarrowlings were born; they feared decline in the manner of the Elves. They had suffered huge losses in the battles and calamities of the last two hundred years in particular and too many dams had lost their lives as casualties of war.

As with all panics which swept through communities, though there was a kernel of truth, emotion drove it. The people held in high regard those wed to their craft and regarded with pity, but understanding those who had lost their Ones. A widow was not expected to remarry, and when one’s love was unrequited that was also understood to be a painful state, to be borne with endurance. The sympathy ended when it came to dams who chose not to bear young, without the ‘excuse’ of widowhood or of being craft-wed or thwarted in love. ‘Selfish’ they were beginning to be called. Worse still, was when two dams found love, and chose not to have dwarrowlings sired upon them. It seemed that the people in general could hold two abstract concepts in their minds and not worry too much that they were contradictory. Yes, they understood full well that the heart wants what the heart wants, but still felt those who had no desire for young, outside of the ‘accepted’ reasons, were acting out of spite. ‘But!’ they cried, ‘you would not even need to lie with a seeded one! Just bear the young and we would take them!’ Dwarrow revered children, they would not even need to raise them, people argued, simply bear them and loving homes aplenty would fight to love the child.

Several such dams decided to leave Erebor. Gloin could not help but be moved by the determination on the faces of those who had decided to leave Erebor and help found a new settlement. Gloin mused that in travelling clothes, Legolas would still not be able to tell which were the dams. A tendency to wispiness in the beard? He could not be sure, and had not yet learnt to read braids.

Gloin and Mili knew they were too old to join the pioneers and besides that, they did not wish to wrap Gimli up in swaddling clothes. They needed to let him be his own Dwarf and not hover round him like the Master to a lazy apprentice. Once again, they would have to let him go.

Through notes and messages sent by raven, Gimli and Legolas communicated as Gimli rested and grew well again in Dale. It cheered him greatly to know that Gimli bore their separation with good humour, for Gloin had feared Gimli’s recovery would be delayed due to sorrow at this new separation.

Gimli shared that he felt bitter and miserable that his kin should receive his One thus. Explanations could be heard by all, but they would only work on those who were open to hearing, and those were few enough.

Gudrun burned with humiliation. She felt like an ember, forgotten by a careless smith, and left to smoulder unattended. She had intended to keep quiet, at least until she could confirm it, but Gimli’s eyes had been full of heat when he looked at her after she gave them her gift, that day in his home with his parents and the Elf with him. She was sure his shackles were breaking. After leaving Gimli’s home she had headed to her usual tavern for a pint of something to take the edge off. When the Elf inevitably became a topic of conversation, she couldn’t help but say, “in not too long, Mahal willing, my belly shall be round with Gimli’s child, and the Elf will be forgotten about.” The usual jeers and hoots of laugher were all the response she received, before a ribald song about the Elf started up, something about only having a detachable mithril cock, but she was sure she saw one or two looks of respect at her connection to Gimli. 

Then she had heard the news of Gimli’s death the next morning in the workshop and had been overwhelmed by guilt. He must have been trying to break free of his bonds, emboldened by her efforts to help him. She then heard the rumours that he clung still to life, but when she tried to visit him, she was barred from entering. She told the healers she would be the mother of his child, but despite the looks of pity they had given her, they did not allow her entry. She had not returned to work, and was now not sure she would be accepted back, given her absences and irregular behaviour of the past few days.

Together with most of Erebor, she was there when the Elvenking brazenly walked into their mountain as if he owned it. Because she knew what to look for, she recognised him enchanting their own king Thorin with his eyes. She seethed at his being allowed to walk out from the mountain, without being forced to atone for the crimes of his people. Then came that travesty of an anvil wedding. The enchantment must have returned, even stronger than before, and when she tried to grab Gimli on the way out of the mountain she was forced back. She had heard that Gimli was now in Dale, so she made her preparations.

________________

Bifur stood with his foot on the Dam’s hand. The knife lay on the ground beside her. She must have been hiding in here for hours. She was still shouting as the Dale guards restrained her. The head of King Bard’s household guard gestured at Bifur with a query in his eyes. Bofur translated. “He is signing to her that she has brought shame to her family name, and only her shameful deeds will be remembered when she returns to stone. He is telling her that she is lucky he is the one who found her and if she wants, he can still leave her to the tender mercies of the Elf.”

_______________

Always Legolas’ expectations for what his future held were overturned when it came to life with Gimli. He had always thought he would honeymoon in bowers sweet with honeysuckle and the song of familiar trees serenading him and his spouse. When he passed the age after which it was uncommon to be wed, he had put aside that dream and thought no more of such things. Now, for a second time, he was to honeymoon in a Mannish city. Never had he imagined paved streets would fill him with joy or that stone buildings would send heat into his gut, coiling with anticipation as he and his party approached the palace in Dale..

The formal greetings in the court of King Bard II passed in a haze. There was a scuffle in one of the courtyards behind them but all he could focus on was Gimli, who was looking hale and strong again. Legolas had travelled to Dale with his brother Therion and some of his former patrol, warier now than ever of roving packs of Orcs. Heedless of protocol, he knelt before Gimli and gathered him up in his arms. He felt his face heat up and Gimli’s eyes darken as they met his, and a shy smile lit up Legolas’ face. Gimli’s strong embrace circled him and he could not stop the slight gasp as he felt the tension in their bodies, and felt the heat between his own legs. Gimli’s beard tickled his face as Gimli kissed the top of Legolas’ head and whispered tender endearments. He found himself lost in Gimli’s eyes and felt his heart pounding loudly in his ears. He sighed against Gimli’s shoulder and once again Legolas wondered at the strength of his reaction. They both knew if they kissed each other here, they would not be able to stop, so held back. His eyes can not help but drift over Gimli’s form, and he remained distracted, but tried to focus on the proceedings.

In everything, they always needed to spare a thought for the political ramifications of their actions. Would that he could sweep Gimli away, to engulf him and spend hours remembering each inch of his body with his hands and mouth. That Gimli would undo his hair and comb him and whisper love and tenderness into his ear while nipping and licking and touching. And laughing. Their lovemaking was always full of laughter. But for the Lord of Aglarond and the Prince of Ithilien to abscond and abandon the feast in their honour would send a message of discourtesy to Dale. 

Even though he was fairly sure the king himself would be happy to excuse them, his Men would be only too happy to spin a tale of how their king had been disrespected and of how their generosity had been thrown back at them and all manner of diplomatic soothing and concessions would need to follow. So, for that reason Legolas sat. He ignored the heat of Gimli’s body next to him and sat. He sat through the speeches, the stringed instruments twanging, the displays of acrobats demonstrating what any Elf could do by their twentieth year. The seating arrangement had separated him from his brother, who as heir to King Thranduil was given a position of honour at King Bard’s right hand. Legolas was next to Gimli and a councillor he had never met was to his other side. Normally he would have engaged in polite nodding and smiles, if not conversation, but he could not tear his eyes away from Gimli. His hand could not leave Gimli’s. Gimli himself had seemed to have forgotten his diplomacy, and even when he spoke to others, his eyes would seek Legolas’ and beneath his moustaches, the corners of a silly smile peeked through.

Legolas mused that this modest feast of welcome in Dale, also served as their wedding feast after their Anvil Wedding. A pang of sorrow gripped his heart at the thought that once again, due to the nature of their union, Gimli would be denied a part of his heritage. Gimli had told him once of the traditions of his people after a wedding. How the newly married couple would be carried aloft by their friends and families. They would be expected to dance vigorously in exchange for gifts from their guests. There would be sung particular songs, in which each family member or friend would have chosen an individual harmony in the song. When the song rose up in a rich chorus, it was sending a message that the couple was loved by many. Specific dishes would be served, following secret Dwarrow recipes, which were symbolic in bestowing fertility and virility, less than symbolic some said, as many of the ingredients were known to increase libido. These things would not be done above ground, or in a palace filled with Men and Elves.

Legolas remembered the time they had spent in his father’s realm after leaving Fanghorn. When they had reached Eryn Lasgalen they were not _newly_ -vowed, _technically_ _._ They had been married several weeks prior, in Minas Tirith. The morning after they were wed, Mithrandir had said “Ah, I see congratulations are in order.” His eyes had twinkled and within his genuine happiness for the couple, was intermingled an urge to meddle. He could not help it, thought Legolas. It was his nature. Pippin had sulked at not being invited to their wedding. Gandalf explained, and the hobbits had not been as bashful as Legolas would have thought, when they received a brief outline of the components of an Elven marriage. Legolas and Gimli had declined a feast as offered by Aragorn. Instead, the remainder of the Fellowship had enjoyed a delightful meal prepared by Sam and Frodo, together with help from the Royal kitchens. It was the last time they would have Aragorn alone with them, the last time they could recline with Strider, with Estel, as a group, before the duties of kingship denied him the time to do so again.

Amongst Elves, while a wedding is a private thing, the celebrations afterwards were for all loved ones to wish the newly-vowed couple well. Upon his return to Eryn Lasgalen, after the initial shock had worn off, his father had ensured certain customs had been met. At the feast of welcome, celebrating his return, the renaming of Mirkwood and more mutedly, his marriage, Thranduil had approached Legolas and Gimli. When he saw Thranduil walking towards them with the silver dish, Legolas had tugged Gimli into a kneeling position before his father, the king. Legolas’ Inglishmek was limited, especially the version which relied on touch alone, but he had known these phrases. _Trust me_ _,_ he had tapped into Gimli’s palm. _Copy me_ _._ Gimli’s firm squeeze back reassured him that he understood and Legolas relaxed minutely.

Legolas had knelt down, then opened his mouth. Thranduil had placed a honey-covered rose petal on his tongue, then another on Gimli’s; that the newly-vowed couple’s words to each other would be ever soft and sweet. Thranduil had then tapped the flat of his sword on their heads then cut the air to the left and to the right of them; his protection over the couple. Then, as one, everyone in attendance had exhaled and breathed a breath towards Gimli and Legolas; they would use their very last breath to protect the union. This was done at any wedding feast, but in their case those promises held a particular poignancy.

After that had come the music and dancing and feasting, wilder than anything Gimli had seen at Arwen’s wedding feast. It had gone long into the night and even Gimli had attempted to join in and was laughing and charming, even as Legolas recognised an edge of nervousness as he danced in the clearing in which his father had been captured and imprisoned. Some guards were still in place, in case of a stray spider or Orc, but this was the happiest the forest had been since the Shadow had begun to fall over their land. Even when they had celebrated the end of the war, Legolas’ own fate was still unknown to them, thus the celebrations at that time carried a thread of restraint. Now, full throated singing and well wishes filled the evening, all thoughts of the sea, or mortality or shadows pushed aside.

After the feast of welcome from King Bard, Gimli’s mother, who had remained with Gimli in Dale, led them to a quiet solarium and pronounced words of blessing over them. She spoke in Khudzul and the words were unfamiliar to him, but the meaning washed over him and the tears in both Mili and Gimli’s eyes spoke to their import. She then left them alone.

“Legolas,-” Gimli broke off and lifted his eyes to meet his beloved’s. Legolas knew that Gimli could see a shadow; perhaps it was the toll of his captivity, under stone. As their eyes locked, Legolas felt jagged edges softened; perhaps it was just the fear that had carved new care into his eyes. But even as he looked it seemed that the growing and gathering gloom was receding, and very slowly, slowly rising, a heat took its place. They dared not reach out to touch even their fingers together in this public place, lest their long pent-up restraint was overtaxed by this demand to taste only a morsel of the delights spread out before them.

Therefore, as the stars came out, Gimli quickly led Legolas to the chamber in which he had been recovering for these two weeks. It was a well-appointed room in the palace, reserved for dignitaries and emissaries, which he supposed they were, or were soon to be, twice over as the Lords of Aglarond and Ithilien.

ooo

Legolas closed the door. “Are you well enough for – for me to be here? Here – in this room?” Legolas whispered, standing behind Gimli, his breath hot on Gimli’s neck, and Gimli could hear the hesitant note in his voice.

“Yes,” Gimli said, turning around, and he meant it. His recovery had been slow, but he had taken the milk of the poppy only for the journey here to Dale, and the pain was now gone. All he wanted was to be close to his One. But first, he reached up to remove the beads and fasteners in Legolas’ hair. Legolas knelt on one knee and bent his head, and pressed his forehead to Gimli’s, his eyes closed. Gimli unravelled the braids in Legolas’ hair, then finger-combed the silken hair, Legolas felt a heat rise at the intimacy of having his hair unbound by another. Gimli kissed his forehead then quickly wove into his hair a four-stranded, utilitarian work-braid, the kind Gimli had told him workers used when they were facing an extremely vigorous task, and did not want to be distracted by hair. Gimli knotted the end with a leather strap. Legolas stroked the braid and raised one eyebrow at Gimli then laughed. Gimli unbraided his own hair and beard and left them free to form an auburn halo around his head.

Finally, Legolas' soft lips brushed against his own and his lips parted softly with a barely audible gasp. He focused on the _rightness_ of the feeling. Gimli smiled into his lips, and then embraced Legolas for a hot and desperate kiss. The kiss was made up of all those he had not been able to give since seeing him today, since they were last separated.

Gimli’s hands press firmly on Legolas’ hips and he pressed him into the wall, first trying to unlace his leggings and then groaning in frustration when Legolas pushed him away gently. He pushed back his rising desire and listened as Legolas spoke against Gimli’s ear, “let me see, first.”

Somehow, the embroidered robe Gimli had been wearing had already found itself on the floor and was in a crumpled pile by their feet, together with Legolas’ jerkin. Legolas gave a look requesting permission, and Gimli nodded.

Legolas’ hands brushed beneath his undershirt, rubbing along his back for a moment, then gently took hold of the hem and pulled it over his head. For a moment it was an undignified tangle, then Gimli stood with his broad chest heaving and Legolas’ hands, worshipful, were running over him.

"Surely you were sculpted directly by Aulë himself. So beautiful." For a moment it seemed that Legolas would be distracted by running his hands over Gimli's back. Then he spoke again. "Your broad shoulders and the hard muscle of your back feel solid under my hands. You are real, and here now. I will not allow us to be parted again." Legolas knelt down and pressed his forehead against Gimli's breastbone, then began peppering kisses lightly on his stomach, while Gimli’s hands brushed loosely in his hair and he let out a low groan. Legolas drew back then rested on his haunches.

“Ai!” he cried out softly, his voice rasping in his throat, and his hand was drawn to the jagged red line down Gimli’s side and ghosted lightly over it. Suddenly Gimli's throat was tight as he saw Legolas' face contort as if the pain was his own.

“It went in at an angle and they had to cut it out, because of the barbs.” Gimlli tried to speak factually, as the healers did.

Pain filled Legolas’ eyes, but Gimli gripped his shoulders tightly. “I’m still here. We are both here, lad.” His hands moved to cup the smooth face and their mouths met, hot and wet and Legolas moaned into his mouth. Without untying the laces, Legolas reached inside Gimli’s smallclothes. Khudzul fell from Gimli’s lips in a stream. “Yes.” Gimli knew that Legolas now recognised also the words ‘keep going’, ‘harder’ ‘right there’; these words he has learnt in the past few months, together with other Westron words he had never heard before knowing Gimli in this way.

“You should not still be able to talk so much, Silvertongue.” Legolas pressed his thumb over the slit of Gimli’s cockhead and was rewarded with another low moan, and the words stopped, replaced with huffs of breath timed with each thrust upwards into his hand.

Gimli took Legolas’ hand from his trews, gently gripping the wrist and pausing to place a kiss inside it. Then he held Legolas’ waist and hefted him to his feet, the feeling of raw strength and power sending a tremor through Legolas’ whole body. They stumbled towards the bed. Gimli stood by the edge of the bed and now he was running his hands over Legolas’ chest and praising him. Legolas panted and lightly caressed his own nipples. “Mahal’s beard,” muttered Gimli.

Legolas hazily wondered if any of the valar actually had beards, but he was not about to begin that debate. Gimli's voice dropped an octave as he began to whisper Khudzul all over Legolas body, his teeth lightly grazing over his skin, punctuating the phrases.

Gimli climbed backwards, up onto the bed, shoes and trews still on, and Legolas followed, hovering above him.

He felt Gimli’s hand splay over his back and for several breaths they just held each other. His thick fingers ghosted over his neck. Then, suddenly, Gimli pulled Legolas’ hips down to meet his unyielding knee. The pressure was almost overwhelming, and Legolas could not help but rut against it. Their harsh breaths mingled as they rocked together, eyes hazy with arousal and want. Gimli's rough breaths sounded out with each thrust. Legolas keened as the desire built like a wave, threatening to consume every thought. It took all his sense of control to push his hands against Gimli’s chest, in a silent request to stop. He did not want to spill like this. Not so soon. 

Legolas rolled onto his back with invitation in his eyes. 

“Oh, Mahal,” Gimli whispered.

He felt Gimli’s weight pressing him into the mattress and his mouth was seeking his again, the pressure building within his lower parts, almost painfully now. Hands were everywhere and Gimli was _fucking_ his mouth with his tongue. It was sloppy and messy. He could smell their musk rising in the room. Between his legs he could feel his pulse throbbing and the sensation spreading to his backside, his buttocks, down his thighs. Even his nipples, untouched, were thrumming with sensation. _Please._

“Yes,” Gimli growled, leaning forward. His lips brushed Legolas’ eartips, sending more shocks of pleasure through him, making him come undone.

They were both breathing heavily now and sweating, despite the slight chill in the air. Gimli crawled down to his trousers. Legolas’ need was already weeping a small dark patch of liquid through the cloth. Gimli’s hand cupped his length and pressed down and they both cried out. Legolas felt the cool breeze only for a moment, then Gimli’s hot mouth engulfed him and he dissolved into pleasure and white noise filled his hearing. Using hands and lips together, Gimli worked his mouth on him. Legolas hands had to grip Gimli’s shoulders as the tension ran through his body. Since they were first joined, they had never been so long without this intimacy, weeks, and the last shreds of control are tearing away. He does not want his hands in Gimli’s hair, lest he forget himself and inadvertently hurt him, so he pressed his hands into Gimli’s shoulderblades instead.

Always, always there is a shadow to their happiness. There are the slights and worse they endure for their love. There is mortality trying to separate them, and the ever present hum of the sea, drawing him. There are rumours and lies and slurs and slanders. These things would always be with them but right now, in this moment they are gone. Remaining only is happiness at having found what he thought he would never know. Legolas' pride in the character and integrity his love shows in every single thing he does. His beauty. His wit. His skill. His strength. His kindness. His humour.

Gimli growled onto his skin. “Legolas, my One. I had thought I would walk alone always, now here you are.”

Always, they were in tune with each other, synchronised. It set Legolas afire, anew and he was twitching and moaning as Gimli moved. Being with him like this filled Legolas with wonder. He felt not like he had found a missing part of himself, but it was like he could now see the world in another colour. He was flying and the pressure built, and as his body tightened, an endless rush of pleasure swept towards him, leaving him gasping for breath.

Legolas began to pulse and he cried out, “Gimli, not yet!”. Gimli’s firm hand grasped his length, and he keened in frustration when his request was granted.

When he had left Eribor for Dale, Nori had embraced Gimli, then winked at him. Knowing Nori, he had immediately checked his pockets. He had found a tin of salve and a folded piece of paper, which had turned out to be directions as to how to make more of it. It had been only in the last few days that Gimli had been well enough to no longer need someone watching him in the night. He had made use of the salve, several times already, with nothing but his own hand and thoughts of Legolas in various positions, but there was enough remaining for their purposes now.

“I want to make love to you, Legolas. I want to be inside you.”

Legolas sat back and removed his shoes, leggings and breechcloth as Gimli watched hungrily. Legolas raised an eyebrow and Gimli blushed as he removed his own boots and clothes until they were both bare.

He could not help but make a cry of pleasure as Gimli pinned him against the bed again. His need had leaped up, and as Gimli teased and squeezed and massaged, Legolas’ hands ran up and down Gimli’s flanks. As Gimli’s hand cupped and pressed down on the head of his cock, Legolas called out, breathless, heedless of who might be able to hear them. He was where he belonged and Gimli’s skilled hands moved down, rubbing behind his balls to elicit another thrill running down his spine and drawing out another cry. Legolas was conscious of the awful red scar and would do Gimli no harm through rough handling. They moved in a clumsy rhythm as they kissed and touched and ground against each other.

Legolas shivered and groaned softly as Gimli’s fingers opened him. He wondered at how natural this now felt, when months ago he was ignorant of all these sensations. Gimli bent one of Legolas’ knees forwards, then he pushed down on his hip with one hand, as he worked him open with the other. A blush was now on Gimli’s cheek and spread down his chest. Gimli was now sweating and panting, not with illness but with obvious desperate need and desire. Legolas groaned and watched with delight as he removed his fingers and thrust his hips against the crack of Legolas’ behind, in slick, frantic wanting but without pushing inwards. Each motion of his body sent a hot wave of longing over him.

Legolas’ own breath was rough and ragged, and he throbbed and ached with want of him. Legolas tilted his hips towards Gimli. Above Legolas, with one hand he held himself up, and with the other he guided himself in and they both groaned when Gimli pressed into him. Elbereth! Gimli was now fully sheathed, but held still, waiting for the spasms to stop. Gimli held himself still and just marvelled at the sight of Legolas spread beneath him. All his words were gone now and only moans of desire remained. The Inglishmek _more_ unconsciously twitched on his fingers, then Legolas pressed upwards.

Gimli surged forward, his face twisted with want. There was no rhythm at first, just frantic thrusts and Legolas gasping for air. His dry breaths rasped in his throat. He must have been shouting out his pleasure. He fell into Gimli’s eyes and both of them made no attempt to wipe away their tears. Halting Khudzul then stuttered from Legolas’ own lips; amrâlimê, ghivashel.

An obscene moan met his words.

The uncertainty washed away. They did not know how the settlements would fare, even how the work in Minas Tirith would go, with Dwarrow and Elves working if not exactly side-by-side, in literal spitting distance of each other. They did not know what would happen after either of them died. Would they have to wait for the Second Singing of the world to be reunited? They did not know how long Legolas would be able to resist the sea-longing. But for now, now, they were suspended together in this bliss. 

For a much shorter time than usual, their hips canted together, frantic. With wordless sounds of pleasure, they urged each other on. For this moment, for an eternity, they were one. Gimli, with a warrior’s full command of his own body, relentlessly struck that spot within him. After that first spark, the heat built and built between them. Gimli moaned, the pulse of his climax shuddered through and a rush of sensation left Legolas trembling and moaning in Gimli’s arms. This was right. Everything was worth this.

Gimli, still dazed, his arms shaking, slipped out, then bent down to take Legolas into his mouth. 

“Fuck!” he called out. 

With two upward thrusts Legolas spent. As a wave cresting, with the sunlight glinting off it, so too did the climax burst into light within him. Then as a wave crashed and collapsed, so too did Legolas find himself sprawled beneath Gimli and static filled his hearing, overcoming the ever-present sound of the sea. Light filled his vision and he fell into true sleep with Gimli in his arms, Gimli’s fingers sleepily tapping the message into his hand. _I love you._ A shiver went through him and he sighed happily.

They held each other tight and Gimli kept them close with his strong hands, and his heart swelled with emotion.

“Husband,” Gimli said, his voice breathless and rough. He moved up the bed so that they could lie face-to-face and their foreheads pressed together. He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. Gimli’s thick fingers wiped at the tears running down his cheeks.

Legolas felt Gimli’s chest heaving against his own and eventually his own trembling subsided as he was held fast in those thick arms. He sat up slightly as a cup of water was pressed to his lips and he revelled in the languid satisfaction of joining.

“Husband,” Legolas whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends, it’s been a great ride and thanks for coming along. I’d love to hear your thoughts about the ending and the story in general.
> 
> If you liked this, maybe check out some of my other stories. My favourite is  
> [The Axe and Bow in Bree](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21681451)


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